The Blanket
by Axia West
Summary: Anders has never had trouble with women... That is until he meets a fiery Warden Commander with a heartbreaking past. She's not looking for love and neither is he, but sometimes the Maker has plans of His own. Rated M for later chapters.
1. One

**Disclaimer**: I do not own these characters, but the thoughts are mine. Please do not publish this elsewhere. This follows events in Dragon Age Origins: Awakenings and may contain spoilers from the first game as well as the expansion. This is working within the frame of a female city elf warrior who chose to save Loghain, thereby alienating Alistair but saving both of their lives.

**One**

Theoretically, she wasn't even his type.

Soft girls, round girls, statuesque amazons, and even the occasional naughty nobleman's daughter… Those were the types of ladies he generally preferred. They rarely put up a fight, or if they did, it was a pleasant, giggling resistance that crumbled after a few well-timed compliments. An hour or two of flirting and they'd be all but leaping out of their small clothes. He enjoyed easy women. They reaffirmed what he himself had learned beyond any doubt: life was hopelessly short and made to be filled with pleasures.

So it was inconceivable then, that he was mooning over a seasoned warrior. Anders wasn't familiar with army regulations, but he was pretty sure it was a bad idea to fraternize with your superiors, or even your equals. But love – ugh, _love_ – certainly moved in mysterious ways…

Especially considering that he was convinced _somebody_ had taught her the ways of the Templars. There was no mistaking the sound of mana being sucked out of a body. He could recognize that awful whistling shriek in his sleep. Not that she had ever drained _his_ mana, but the possibility lingered…

And that was just the beginning of her… irregularities. She was an elf, and he had never seen the appeal until now, and she was petite - almost half his size - and she could wrench his head clean off if the mood took her. And she was so damn _brooding_. But maybe that was why she fascinated him. All these factors he would have previously placed in the con column – they combined together to make one confusing, enchanting and terrifying woman.

Anders coughed. Something had whacked him hard in the chest. _Andraste's elbow, I've nodded off again. _And he had. Right in the middle of their walk through Amaranthine.

"Still with us, fancy feet?"

Bloody dwarves. Why couldn't they just stay below ground with the nugs and the Darkspawn where they belonged?

"Well done," Anders grunted, "I didn't even know you could reach that high."

He patted the place where Oghren had thumped him and watched the dwarf growl and belch and sidle away. It was almost too easy. Height was the one true indefensible soft spot for Oghren.

"Next time it'll be your ankles," the dwarf continued, "and I'll be using my axe."

"Dully noted and subsequently ignored."

"Children, can we focus?" Nathaniel piped up. He was such an insufferable suck-up. Anders had watched, flabbergasted, as the Howe son ingratiated himself with their fearless elf leader. The woman had personally killed Rendon Howe and still managed to win Nathaniel's trust and, inexplicably, his admiration. Anders might have liked Nathaniel if he wasn't such a doormat. That, and Nathaniel had been given every opportunity in life – a rich family, conquest, lands… Sure, Rendon Howe had dashed all those blessings on the rocks, but it sure beat growing up in a prison like the Circle Tower. He and Nathaniel were close together in age, shared an appreciation for fine liquor and also shared, unfortunately, the same taste in women.

Anders narrowed his eyes at the way Nathaniel kept close to Tavia. Tavia? When had he started thinking of her by her first name? Before it was always Commander. _Yes, Commander? Seriously, Commander? A dwarf, Commander, are you sure that's wise?_

He knew it must be short for something. Octavia, maybe, or no, that wasn't much of an elf name. Durotavia? Maker, no, that was worse.

"Sorry," Nathaniel was saying. He had just nudged the Commander aside, helping her to narrowly avoid a deep mud puddle. "Not sure where that one ends," Nathaniel said with a chuckle, peering down at the bottomless hole, "Orzammar maybe."

The Commander nodded, and thanked him with a brusque smile. _Ha_, Anders thought, _that'll teach you. Don't manhandle the Commander._ Puddle or no, the woman could take care of herself. She had already marched them through sheeting rain to reach Amaranthine in a timely manner. Anders had vaguely wondered if walking through a lightning storm was smart when you were covered head to foot in steel armor, but Commander Tabris didn't complain and he wouldn't either, not aloud anyway.

Then something happened. He noticed a face, a familiar face, hanging around near a dilapidated fence outside the chantry.

"Namaya!"

Without thinking, he pushed past Nathaniel and the Commander. He laughed incredulously, opening his arms for a hug he was sure he wouldn't get. Ah well, didn't hurt to try. Namaya glared, as usual, and tapped her foot impatiently.

"You know her?" the Commander asked, raising one shapely eyebrow.

"Do I ever," Anders replied. "Any luck?"

"I found your cache. You were right, it's here in Amaranthine, at an old warehouse on the other side of town." Namaya gave him a little shove, one he was certain he didn't deserve, at least not from her. "That's it, Anders. I'm out. You're on your own." She turned to Commander Tabris. _Oh bother_. "You with him? Watch out for this one. Don't listen to a word he says, even if it comes out charming."

"Namaya, I… that hurts."

"Sure it does, Anders. Sure it does."

All eyes turned to Anders, who coughed into his hand to break the silence. Inside his pack, a plaintive meow echoed his embarrassment.

"That was… interesting." Tavia was looking at him closely. Normally he would've welcomed her attention, but those dark blue eyes could be menacing when she put her mind to it. "Care to share with the class?" she asked.

"_Someone's in trouble_."

"Hold your tongue, dwarf," Anders spat, not appreciating Oghren's singsong tone. "The um, well the cache Namaya so eloquently spoke of is where, Maker willing, my phylactery is being stored." Nathaniel stared blankly. "_Phy-lac-ter-y_, you know, the little glass tube thing with my blood? It's how the Templars keep finding me."

"You sure it isn't the smell?" Nathaniel returned.

"Maybe they're sensitive to cat dander," Tavia added.

"Ha. Ha. Yes, very funny. Hilarious, actually! Let's all have a good laugh about my misery. How sensitive of you all. I appreciate it."

"So it's here in town?" Tavia went on, ignoring his ranting. "Should we go get it?"

By the Maker, there really was an understandable reason he was falling for her.

"A woman of action," Anders blurted out, wincing even as he said it, "I'm all a-tingle."

"It's on the list then," she said.

Oghren grumbled something about getting sidetracked and scratched at his neck. A weird rash had started there and Anders made a mental note to keep his distance. Between the sour smell of old booze and that developing rash, proximity to Oghren was about as appealing as doing a striptease for a Templar. Which reminded him…

Anders shouldered Nathaniel aside, ignoring the little whining noise he made.

"Could I ask you something?"

Commander Tabris stared straight ahead, her armor rattling as they made their way through the streets. She nodded, just a little. That was major for her. Usually she brushed off his questions with some tosh about Darkspawn and needing to stay focused.

"I was thinking… I mean, outside of town you used, well you sort of reminded me of a Templar," Anders said. "The way you held your sword, the stances, the um, mana sucking thing. Am I wrong?"

"What exactly are you accusing me of, Anders?"

Ser Pounce-a-lot mewled. Even he could tell Anders was flinging himself into scalding hot waters. Anders glanced at the two enormous swords strapped to her back. How she wielded them without falling over onto her face, he would never know.

"It's not an accusation," he replied. He was sweating now. Badly. "I'm just intimately familiar with their habits and… Well, I could have been imagining it…"

Back away slowly, he thought, don't ruffle the touchy woman with razor-sharp blades. Her shoulders seemed tighter than usual, bunching up around her face. And her expression… storm clouds were more cheerful. He had touched on something raw, poked her right in an old wound, that much was clear.

"You weren't imagining anything," she said flatly. "I've traveled all over Fereldin, Anders. I've picked up a few things."

That wasn't much of an answer, he thought. It also did nothing to address the not-so-subtle rumors that the Commander of the Grey had once been the right-hand and possible lover of King Alistair… Which made her deflection perfectly understandable, if the rumors were true… Especially when one considered that the King was a former Templar. _Andraste's ass_. Suddenly, it all made a dizzying kind of sense. Anders swallowed hard, regretting his misstep. He had hinted at something painful for her, and only seconds after she had agreed to help him destroy his phylactery.

_What an impressive dunce you are, Anders._

Messy, messy, messy. Politics and love never mixed. Suddenly, he felt his heart twinge. What was this new and strange feeling? Compassion? Empathy? He was going soft. Anders cleared his throat in what he hoped was a very manly fashion.

"Of course, Commander," he said. "That makes sense."

"Yes," she said coldly, closing the subject with an ominous kind of finality, "It does."

Anders skulked back to his position several yards behind the Commander. Oghren chuckled, but didn't say anything. Of course. Oghren would know. He had served with the Commander throughout Fereldin, followed her on suicide missions and, in all probability, been privy to the relationship between the Commander and King Alistair. Sodding dwarf had let him stick his foot directly into a gigantic pile of mabari shit.

"I know where you sleep, dwarf," Anders hissed under his breath.

"Likewise."

Commander Tabris paused to discuss something in whispered tones with a helmeted man near the northern city gates. Anders parked himself on a nearby fence, letting Ser Pounce-a-lot out for a wee and a snack. The tabby was quick to return to Anders's lap. The cat cleaned itself while Anders stroked its stripy orange back. He couldn't help it, his mind wandered again, directly back to the Commander. He watched her from a distance, negotiating with a thug, her face set with grim determination. Maker, she was lovely, and intimidating. No wonder even the King had fallen prey to her charms. Charms wasn't the right word… It's not that she wasn't charming, she was, she had a keen, dry sense of humor that surprised even Anders. And she could sweet-talk Seneschal Varel into just about anything. And she was physically alluring, although Anders had never glimpsed her out of armor, it was just… Strange, the way she led men older and bigger than her without so much as breaking a sweat. It was in her blood, her destiny, to be greater than a slum elf with a strong sword arm.

She was fair, probably from spending so much time beneath a helmet, and built like a hare, wiry and strong and sleek. Ser Pounce-a-lot nipped at his fingers as if to say, "You're staring." Anders gave him another bit of dried mackerel and hoped it would be enough of a distraction. Now she was rubbing her fingers across her forehead, exasperated by what the thug wanted in payment. He wondered what she would look like without all that steel encasing her. Small, he guessed, and strong. She kept her pale hair short, very short, in a kind of warrior's Mohawk. It worked to her advantage when, in the heat of battle, she yanked off her helmet and screamed bloody murder at a foe. The sight of her wild hair and blood-spattered face was enough to send you jumping down the nearest rabbit hole.

Then they were moving on. Negotiations finalized, it was time to hit the market. Anders felt his stomach tighten with nerves. They were nearing the spot Namaya had mentioned. He hoped his little blunder about Templars wouldn't influence the Commander to change her mind. He really did need that phylactery, and he wasn't going to be getting it on his own.

The Commander stopped near a merchant's stall, his table crammed with trinkets and jewels and all kinds of wondrous potions. Anders browsed, one eye on the table, the other on the warehouse door just inches away. Was he being needy if he asked to go in? Maybe he was, but there was only one way to find out.

"This is it," he said quietly.

The Commander looked up from the jeweled necklace she had been admiring. Anders glanced down at his feet sheepishly. He hadn't meant to interrupt. She put down the jewel absent-mindedly and turned to the warehouse. It was a grubby building, long-forgotten and seemingly built as an afterthought. It didn't look anything like some of the nicer, more elegant stone garrisons in town.

"So it is," she replied. Reaching over her shoulder, she grabbed the helmet dangling from her sword pommel and put it on. "Shall we?"

"You're expecting resistance?" Anders asked.

"I'm _always_ expecting resistance."

In they went, the Commander first, then Oghren, then Nathaniel and finally Anders. He hated taking up the rear, but it made sense. He was the most vulnerable, clad only in his mage's robes. In the back, he was less likely to take a stray arrow and he had a better sense of his comrades' needs. Nathaniel stood watch near him as they stopped just inside the door. It was lit with candles. Odd, Anders thought, for an abandoned place to be so well-lit.

The Commander made a sweep of the room, riffling through crates and chests, taking what she wanted. No sign of any phylactery. She moved into the far room, her two long swords poised and ready.

"Ah Anders," a droll voice said, "We've been expecting you. Fell into our little trap, did you? Typical. You'd do anything for that phylactery, and I'd do anything to stop you."

Templars. Brilliant. Should've seen that one coming.

Commander Tabris wrenched off her helmet, glaring at the Templars and their smug, self-satisfied expressions. For a horrible, fleeting moment, Anders wondered if this was it. Maybe the Commander would be sick of saving his skin and just turn him over. It would certainly make her life easier.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Commander Tabris demanded.

_Be still my heart._

"Don't you have anything better to do? Maleficarum to chase? Helmets to shine? I've conscripted Anders. What part of Right of Conscription do you not understand? Shall I draw you a diagram?"

"This man murdered Templars," Rylock replied. She placed a hand over her sword pommel. Maker, he hated that woman. How on earth did one get their eyebrows to _do_ that? "He must be brought to justice. You have no idea… the depths of this man's crimes."

"You are seriously getting on my nerves," Commander Tabris muttered. Rylock shrugged, standing her ground. "Let me rephrase that for you: you are getting on my nerves. Mine. The Hero of Fereldin. Do you have any idea how many Darkspawn have fallen to these swords? Do you really think I'm going to hand over a fellow Grey Warden?"

"He's no Grey Warden," Rylock muttered.

"Believe it or not, up to now he has made an excellent Grey Warden."

"I can see you're not going to cooperate," Rylock continued with a sigh.

"Oh? What gave you that impression?"

And then her head was on the floor. Rylock. Head. Floor. It happened so fast Anders hardly had time to process it. One minute Rylock was giving that signature bitch-faced glare, and the next her neck was spurting torrents of blood and her head was rolling towards his feet. He picked up the hem of his robe and took a giant step back. Surgical, the way the Commander worked. She had popped the woman's head off like a chef carving a turkey. It took a moment for the other Templars to react. And once they did, they were too rattled to be much of a threat.

Anders sidestepped the growing puddle of blood to search Rylock's breastplate.

"She doesn't have it, Anders. It was a trap. Your phylactery was never here."

Nathaniel and Oghren stood silently in the doorway. One look from the Commander and they turned away, falling on the Templars to scavenge what they could. The Commander took him by the arm and pulled him aside. Anders forced back a scream of frustration. So close, so sodding close…

"You don't understand," Anders sputtered, "The Templars… they… they won't let you get away with that."

"You're my friend, Anders. Friends stick up for each other. Besides," she said, kicking Rylock's limp ankle, "She had it coming. You alright? Do you need a moment?"

"Me? Bah, no. Let's just… get on with it."


	2. Two

**Two**

This had been a bad idea. Not only was the weather disgusting, but there were bandits about. The Commander had taken care of most of them on their last trip to Amaranthine, but the ones left behind were out for revenge… and blood.

But it was time to do something. She just looked so… so _sad_.

The inspiration for his ill-fated trip to Amaranthine had come after their safe return from the Blackmarsh. They were snapping up lost souls like it was going out of style. First he, Oghren and Nathaniel, and now a crazy elf witch, Sigrun-the-pasty, and a corpse-man calling himself Justice. The Blackmarsh was… interesting, to say the least, and Anders had half-expected them to come back a few comrades short. But the Commander kept them safe, as she always did, although it never seemed to give her much pleasure or satisfaction.

And so when they returned to Vigils Keep and she was beset by yet another round of ear-lashings from nobles, ungrateful and pushy, Anders decided she needed something, a gift maybe. She was always giving them things. Her pack must have weighed less than a feather, the way she selflessly provided and provided. Mementos for Justice, to help him stay in touch with the body he had co-opted, strong swill and battle tokens for Oghren and Sigrun, rare vintages for Nathaniel, flowers and soil for the elf girl and – of course - the best gift of all, Ser Pounce-a-lot. But she never seemed to get anything, just complaints and requests.

Anders had watched her seeking solitude in the keep. She had a talent for disappearing. Sometimes he caught her separating herself, going to the battlements to dangle her feet off the edge and stare into oblivion. She had a mabari that followed her everywhere in the castle. Yet another way in which they were different – she was a dog person through and through. That stinky mabari seemed to be her only true friend. Even Nathaniel was often dismissed coldly when she wasn't in the mood for chitchat. Anders saw the way she tried, diligently, to be kind and accommodating, but it exhausted her.

Sometimes she reminded him of the only mage teacher who had ever shown him kindness. To everyone else in the tower, he was a trouble-magnet. He attracted mischief like a pretty girl attracted suitors. But Mistress Dolora always had time for him. She was the closest thing to a mother he had ever known, and she never spoke down to him or coddled him. But she was always lonely, giving generously of her time and talents only to be pushed aside for promotions by the more ambitious, cut throat mages.

Commander Tabris wasn't exactly a sweet old woman sneaking him sweets, but she aroused in him that same kind of sadness. He could see she was living in a prison, not a mage tower, not at sword point, but chained by a past she couldn't share with anyone. Anders was ninety percent sure it had to do with King Alistair and their falling-out, but the rest of that ten percent remained a mystery.

So he went to Amaranthine, alone, to try and cheer her up. If only he had picked a better day. The mud sucked at his boots, trying to drag him down into a soupy mire that ran from one end of town to the other. The guards stamped their feet at their posts, trying to stay warm and dry and failing epically.

Huddled under a thick woolly cloak, Anders dodged the carts and peddlers, having a destination in mind already. He had left Ser Pounce-a-lot at the keep. This was not cat-friendly weather. Pounce hated water almost as much as he hated the Commander's mabari. The tradesmen sold their wares in rain or shine, which was lucky for Anders, since there wasn't much shine about that day. He felt the pressure of eyes on him, bandits probably, but stalwartly ignored it. If they wanted to attack him in the middle of the street he would go down swinging. Besides, a polite, "Sorry, I'm a bit busy here, gentlemen" probably wouldn't dissuade them from their purpose.

"Hallo," Anders said brightly, greeting the dwarf huddled beneath a rain-soaked awning. The dwarf grunted at Anders's cheerful attitude.

"Can I help you?"

Anders didn't have much money. At the gate he had traded what unnecessary weapons he could, and, feeling swindled, parted with several trinkets he had been carrying around from the mage tower. The dwarf didn't look ready to bargain or put up with any joking, so Anders stuck to business.

"There was a jewel here," Anders said. His face was on fire. It wasn't like the Commander could actually see him buying the necklace she had been admiring, but it sure felt like she could. What an idiot. Had he ever bought a gift for a woman with the simple intent of making her happy? Always in the past he gave jewels in the hopes of landing in someone's bed. More often than not, it worked.

"On a necklace," Anders continued, "It had a sort of dull silver sheen. There were little griffins worked in the silver, around the gem. I think it was a sapphire."

"Ah," the dwarf said, frowning, "I commend you on your good taste, but I'm afraid it was stolen. Not two days ago. Can I interest you in something else, friend?"

"No," Anders muttered, "You can't. Stolen? Do you know who could've taken it?"

"If I knew that he'd be in the stocks and I'd have my necklace back, wouldn't I?"

"Thanks for your help," Anders said sarcastically. He yanked the hood down around his eyes and began to wander off.

"Check the farm to the south west," the dwarf called after him, "There's a group of orphans handing around there. They got some sticky, sticky fingers, those brats."

Anders nodded and raised a hand in recognition. Then he pushed his way back through the trade square, knowing an unpleasant task lay ahead. He had a soft spot for orphans, being one himself. He had even gone so far as to donate a few silvers to their fund in the pub. Anders couldn't help it. He saw himself in the crooked spelling and grubby charity box.

The rain refused to let up. The cloak was no help, he was going to be soaked and probably catch a cold. The Commander would be overjoyed when he returned to the keep, empty-handed and dying of a cough. No task too small for Anders to botch magnificently.

The orphans were exactly where the dwarf salesman thought they would be. Anders marched straight up to their makeshift tent and waited until two little dirty faces appeared. They blinked up at him. He knew the look, had practiced it for many years. _Who us?_ Their eyes seemed to say. _We just be poor and hungry, ser._

"Right," Anders called, "Which one of you stole the sapphire necklace from that dwarf?"

"Who us, ser?"

Ha. I've got your number.

"Don't play coy with me," Anders continued. "I was one of you lot, you know, many years ago. I know all the tricks. So hand it over and I won't tell the constable. Fair?"

"But ser… We din't do it!" the younger boy said. He sniffled and wiped his nose on the back of hand, leaving a long trail of snot.

"Have it your way," Anders said, turning on his heel. "I'll be back with the constable then."

He made it two feet before the littlest orphan darted out and tugged on his cloak.

"Yes? Had a change of heart?"

"I _could_ give it to ya," the orphan said, eyeing him suspiciously, "but what's innit fer me?"

"I see," Anders said, crouching down to the child's level. He put his hand near the boy's ear and extracted a coin from his sleeve, making a flourish. The orphan laughed and held out his hands at the little magic trick. Anders did the trick again, giving the orphan over fifty silver in all.

"The necklace is worth far more," Anders murmured, "But if you give it to me, I won't tell the dwarf or the constable and you and your brother there can eat well tonight."

The orphan nodded and padded back to the tent with bare feet. He reemerged with a little cloth sack and forced it into Anders's open palm. Anders peeked inside the sack, just to be careful, and sure enough, there was the necklace. He flicked another coin at the orphan, who caught it and scampered back to the tent. All in all a successful venture. He had expected to part with at least five or six gold for the necklace. Feeling charitable _and_ victorious, he strode down the lane, heading for the gates and the fields beyond.

He managed to clear the gate before the bandits fell upon him. There were seven, all heavily armed, but he smelled ale on their breath. Still, they were bad odds, even for a skilled mage feeling the glow of triumph. Anders stuffed the pouch far down into his robes, knowing they would try to bargain with him first. He knew better than that. Even if he handed over his valuables they would kill him and pick his corpse clean.

"Gentlemen," Anders crowed, bowing deeply, "Your mothers must be so proud. Seven against one? That's an honorable fight if ever I saw one."

"Still your tongue, mage," the tallest one, and ostensibly the leader, slurred. "Hand over your gold."

"There's your first mistake," Anders replied. "For you assume I'm rich, which I am not. Though I appreciate the implication. I really _do_ look wealthy, don't I?"

As they bantered, Anders tried to extract himself from the copse of trees. If they cornered him against the forest he would be in even bigger trouble. In the open fields he would do far better, able to unleash the full bent of his power without worrying about pesky trees falling on top of him. He sidled his way to the right, trying to circle their numbers and find an opening.

"Bert, shake him down," the leader grunted.

A man, presumably Bert, stumbled over, his knife aimed at Anders's face.

"And there's your second mistake." Anders pulled the staff from behind his cloak with a grand flourish. The bolt of cold hit Bert square in the chest. The stiff jab to his middle made him crumble into a pile of jagged ice shards. "You assume one man is enough to restrain me. One man, gentlemen, is never enough."

The remaining six bandits charged, screaming like harpies as they flashed their swords. Anders thumped his staff on the ground and a ripple spread out in every direction, paralyzing the men in mid-run. It would only hold for a second, and Anders wasn't confident enough in his sprinting abilities to make a run for it.

He fired off crackling charges of electricity as fast as he could, cursing the nearest man to drain some of his life force. Six was bad. Six was probably unmanageable. The rain didn't help, beating on his head like a hundred tiny drums. It was breaking his concentration. The paralyzing field broke and Anders was quickly running out of options.

_Thunk_.

The leader stopped, wavered and stared down in shock at his chest, which now sported a very large, very bloody arrowhead. He collapsed, tumbling toward Anders with his sword falling uselessly to the soggy ground. The bandits hesitated, not so confident now that they had been flanked by a mystery archer.

_Thwack. Thunk_.

Two more bandits collapsed, arrows coming from nowhere at all, from the trees, from the air – with the splattering rain it was hard to tell. Anders didn't wait to find out who was coming to his aid. He sent a rolling fire ball toward two of the bandits. It winged one and fried the other. He sent another paralyzing shockwave across the earth and finished off the last stragglers with a few well-aimed zaps of his staff.

Exhilarated, frightened, confused, Anders wandered past the corpses littering the field to confront his secret savior. A small, hooded figure emerged from the trees, materializing like a liquid shadow. They wore a deep blue cloak of high quality with a silver gryphon emblazoned across the shoulder, wrapping around to the back and hood. He knew that symbol. Well, he ought to, he _was_ a Grey Warden now after all.

"Well I'll be damned," he dropped his head, feeling suddenly reverent, "Commander."

"Anders."

Oh dear. She wasn't in a good mood.

"I had no idea you were handy with a bow," Anders said, laughing nervously. He was in for a hiding if he didn't lighten the atmosphere, and fast. "Just another one of those things you picked up around Fereldin?"

"You could say that," she replied, indulging him in a small smile. "May I ask what you were doing?"

"I thought I was allowed to leave the castle if I chose," Anders replied. She had brought a horse, two in fact. That made him feel slightly better. At least she had expected to find him alive.

"You are," she said. "You're just not allowed to get yourself killed."

"Trust me, I didn't plan that bit." Anders wasn't great with horses, but the Commander didn't need to know that. He took the saddle with both hands and swung himself upward, deciding that feigning mastery was as good as possessing it. His boldness was rewarded, and the horse began to trot beside the Commander's.

"So?" she asked, her voice muffled in the rain. "Risking your life for an impromptu shopping trip? Pounce out of fish again? There's a pond behind the keep, you know. And a smoke house next to the kitchens."

"Pounce is perfectly well-stocked, thank you very much," Anders replied with mock-indignity. "Besides, can you imagine me fishing?"

She glanced at him and he thought he saw just a hint of mirth there in her dark blue eyes. "I suppose not. You don't have the patience for it."

"Or the time. Do you know how difficult it is to keep my stubble exactly this length? It's an every morning kind of operation."

She laughed again. What a wonderful sound. He never heard it much, which was a shame. It was a belly laugh, contagious and forceful… Like just about everything else about her.

"So out with it then," she continued, clicking her tongue to speed her mount along. "What were you doing in Amaranthine? Or is it none of my business?"

Anders hadn't actually thought ahead to this part. He knew, in theory at least, that giving a gem to a woman should be a straightforward affair. Approach target, make appropriately charming observation of her hair or face, present gift, acquire access to panties. Job done, case closed. But this was a Warden Commander, no ordinary milkmaid or bar wench. Her rejection might be swift and come equipped with a sharp, accurate sword.

_ Remember, idiot? This is just to cheer her up, not woo her to your bed._

Insecurity. It wasn't a familiar feeling for Anders.

"Maybe it's a surprise." Surprises are good, right? All women enjoy surprises. Well, perhaps not. Surprises for Tavia Tabris generally involved swarms of Darkspawn jumping out from behind a rock. Could be bad associations there…

"Don't be coy, Anders. I traveled with an elf assassin who could make a whore blush. He disappeared for days at a time and would turn up eventually smelling like twenty different kinds of perfume. I've lived among rascals and thieves my whole life. A visit to a madam is nothing to be bashful about," she said. Anders stared. Was she really this comfortable discussing whore houses and his use thereof? "I understand you have needs. We all do. But don't lie to me – I'm your commander. If you leave the keep it's wise to inform me of your business. Otherwise I might not be there the next time you stumble upon a gang of bandits."

"I was not with a prostitute," Anders said firmly.

"Very well," the Commander said, shrugging. "I won't pry."

_And if you did, you'd probably weasel it out of me that I was buying a gift. For you. For no other reason than to see you smile. Maker, I really am turning into a soppy pudding-head like Nathaniel._

"I told you it was a surprise," he said cryptically. "

"Alright. For your sake I hope it's not the I'll-be-haunted-by-this-later-because-you-accidentally-burned-down-a-chantry sort of surprise."

"No pyromania, fearless leader. You have my word on that."

The Commander nodded, smiling a secret smile to herself. He had to wonder just what kind of company she once kept if that was her experience with surprises. Then he remembered that he was living in a keep with a motley gaggle of weirdos, and that any one of them, except maybe Justice, was liable to burn something or other to the ground.

He saw that, for once, she was not dressed in her heavy plate armor. Instead, she wore a simple leather tunic beneath her cloak and a tight-fitting pair of laced-up riding pants. He could see the strength of her thighs through the material. The natural extrapolation of her riding a horse to her riding something else entirely made his face burn. He turned his eyes forward, away from her delectable thighs, away from thoughts of her straddling his hips.

_Maker, I bet she's a lion in the sack._

"Anders."

"Hm? I… What?" He was never caught off-balance, but there was a first for everything…

"There's, well, a bit of a _function_ tonight." She looked harried and cranky at the mere mention of such a thing. At least she hadn't noticed his daydreaming. "I'm asking everyone to clean up and be on their best behavior. I thought it prudent to host a meal at the keep, to smooth over any bumps with the nobility. We did just put down a rebellion and kill a few lords and ladies in the process."

"So you're asking me to keep my big yet utterly enchanting mouth shut?"

"Oh I think you can put that mouth to good use," she said with a chuckle, "There will be dozens of ladies in attendance. Who better to keep them smiling than our very own silver-tongued mage?"


	3. Three

**Three**

Silver-tongued? Was that a compliment? An insult? Or, Maker preserve him, an innuendo? Anders paced in his chambers, turning over his conversation with Tavia until it made even less sense than when he began. He had picked apart every word, every gesture and expression, and he was still no closer to understanding her intent.

Anders looked at his palm. He had been warming the sapphire necklace in his hand all evening. After a long, blessed bath and a shave, he dressed in a fresh robe and snatched the necklace out of his pack. Pounce kept track of Anders with half-lidded eyes. He had found a nice comfy spot on the window sill and watched his master with distinctly feline disdain.

"Don't look at me like that," Anders snapped. "I know, I know. You're right. Just give her the bloody thing and be done with it. It's not a proposal, it's a gift. A tiny, insignificant gift. But it's… No it's more than that! Agh, Andraste's fiery asshole!"

He raised his fist, tempted to chuck the necklace at the window. It was still raining, the droplets beating against the thick glass relentlessly. How long had he sat in that warm bath, letting the cold and sweat wash away, dreaming of his gallant entrance to the main hall? He would wear his best robe, the scarlet one that brought out the amber in his eyes, and he would stride into the hall, locate the Commander and pointedly not address her. She would be driven mad by this, desperate for his attention, and then she would come to him, ask him to dance. He would sweep her around the floor and, just before the evening ended, present her with the necklace.

Pounce yawned.

"Well kitty," Anders said, dressed and combed and still clutching the damn necklace, "How do I look?"

The cat ignored him, swatting at an invisible bug. Fantastic. Even his pet thought he was a bore.

There was a sharp knock at the door. Oh Maker, maybe it was her. _Pull yourself together, Anders._ He took one last glance in the mirror, straightening his collar. The robe really was perfect for him – scarlet brocade worked with cloth of gold at the hems. It laced at the neck and he had purposefully left it open just a little, to allow the tiniest peek of chest hair. The sleeves widened to deep bells – mimicking more formal magewear - giving a flash of the silk lining. Tight bands of gold and burgundy wound around the biceps. A braided red belt cinched the robe in at the waist.

He hadn't worn the thing in ages, finding no reason to dress up when he usually ended the day covered in blood. Anders had always taken pains to be strong and fit. The noodly mages in the tower couldn't lift a window sill without getting winded. Spending weeks in solitary confinement gave Anders an appreciation for exercise. Bored to tears, he would conjure stones and weighted discs and exhaust himself into peak physical condition. He stretched his shoulders and the robe flattened against his chest, straining.

He smirked. _Ladies, please form an orderly queue…_

Anders went to the door and threw it open.

"Good evening." Nathaniel bowed stiffly at the waist. Weeks of hardship together and the man still treated him like a perfect stranger. "Are you quite ready?"

"Can't you tell?" Anders spun, letting Nathaniel get a good look.

"The guests have begun arriving," Nathaniel replied. "The Commander expects us in the hall soon."

Anders nodded, slipping the necklace into the pocket of his robe. He followed Nathaniel out into the hall, winking at Pounce just before locking the door. Nathaniel was silent as they traversed the tall, echoing halls of the keep. Not even tapestries and thick carpets could stop the sounds of their feet bouncing around. Anders eyed Nathaniel, saw the way he was holding his neck and shoulders very straight. _Tense, are we?_ He and Nathaniel were almost exactly the same height, but Nathaniel was stockier, bigger through the middle. Still, he must have inherited some noble insights from his father. He was dressed in a beautiful tunic and wine-colored hose that showed his well-muscle legs to advantage.

_My competition._

Anders almost tripped over his own feet at the realization. _Of course_ Nathaniel wanted Tavia. Wasn't it obvious? He was always fretting over her, trying to help when she sustained a wound or pointing out irrelevant factoids about whatever tree they were passing under. Anders could hear his obnoxiously cloying voice in his head even then. _Did you know, Commander, these trees are not native to this part of Fereldin? They were brought over by blah, blah, blah…_

Well, that certainly made things more interesting… and more complicated. Anders liked Nathaniel when he wasn't being a kiss-ass. He was an amazing archer, accurate to a fault, and he had a certain wounded sweetness that reminded Anders of a baby bird who had fallen out of a tree. Nathaniel was aching to be fixed, and he had his sights on a potential healer…

"You must be awfully familiar with these kinds of parties," Anders observed.

"Me? Oh not really. I left for the Free Marches before I had the chance to attend many festivals. I was too young to be betrothed and children aren't welcomed at such things. I was always sent to bed before the guests arrived. And in the field, well, you know how it is." Nathaniel shrugged. "Not a lot to celebrate when you're busy digging graves or planning strategies."

"Lovely, then I won't be the only novice," Anders replied. "Although I have this nasty feeling that you and I will spend the bulk of the evening keeping Oghren from passing out in a corner."

"Commander warned him not to drink too much."

"You say that like it will stop him."

A wave of sound rose up to meet them, filling the corridor. Anders wasn't necessarily nervous, he could handle crowds, but Nathaniel looked ready to projectile vomit at any second. Anders squeezed the man's shoulder roughly.

"Have a cup of wine," Anders murmured, "It will ease your nerves."

They rounded the corner and descended the broad staircase that would bring them to the doors before the hall. The doors were flung wide, dispersing the merry sounds of drinking and conversation. A small quartet of bards had been invited to play music, and the rich luster of a lute soared over the mingling voices.

Nathaniel went first, squaring his shoulders and marching into the hall like a soldier going to his execution. Anders admired his grit. He wasn't going to shrink away into the shadows after all. Anders swiped a goblet of wine and joined Justice at one of the stone alcoves. An immense suit of armor loomed over them, polished to gleaming perfection. Anders chose Justice as his initial companion since Oghren was intolerable and Justice was good company, if only because he was so hilariously frank. The corpse-man had no idea just how funny he was.

"Enjoying yourself, Justice?" Anders sipped his wine, keeping a weather eye on the proceedings. Justice had opted to wear his armor, standing just as still as the statue behind them. He might have been a decoration if not for his grisly face.

"We must present our best face to the nobility," Justice recited calmly. "This is the way of your politics. The Commander bids it and so I will play my part to the best of my limited ability."

"I wouldn't call you limited, Justice, just… unfairly disadvantaged. Your, um, hard sense of morality doesn't exactly fit with the politics of the nobility."

"A lie is a lie," Justice replied firmly. "And I have already heard many this evening."

Anders wrinkled his nose. No matter what, the faint scent of sweet rot followed Justice everywhere he went. He scanned the crowed, deciding that maybe Justice wasn't suitable company for a feast. After all, the man didn't even need to eat. Anders spotted Velanna stewing in the opposite corner, throwing challenging glares at any nobleman who dared glance her way. She was a gorgeous woman, but looked choked and uncomfortable in the high-necked gown she had been given for the evening. Anders had to laugh. He didn't envy the Commander. Forcing Velanna out of her twigs and leaves and into a gown must have been a scuffle for the ages.

Sigrun and Oghren stood together near the keg, sneaking full mugs of ale whenever the crowd gave them cover. It wouldn't be long before one or both of them gave a rousing performance on the tabletops. Anders had a feeling it was up to he and Nathaniel to actually impress the nobility. The Commander was going to have a difficult time smoothing things over when she had nothing but a rogue's gallery to show her guests.

It took a moment to locate the Commander. She was not tall and her small elven stature meant she was difficult to spot in the crush of fancy nobles. Finally he found her, standing at the very center of the hall, not far from the musicians. She was in deep conversation with the Seneschal and an older noblewoman. But Anders wasn't particularly interested in their discussion. Seeing Commander Tabris out of her armor and in a leather tunic was one thing, but seeing her in a gown was quite another. She hadn't chosen one of the fussy, frilly things favored by most of Fereldin's upper crust. Instead, she wore a sleeveless dress with a small keyhole over the bust, a heavy beaded collar draped over the shoulders. It was pale purple, amethyst perhaps, and made fabric that looked like it had been spun from a cloud.

"You are staring at her." Justice had crept up on him, standing stock-still again. "Why are you staring at her?"

The brightest star in the firmament he was not…

"I've never seen her so… clean. Or so dressed up," Anders replied. Honesty was best with Justice. He had an infallible nose for a lie.

"She looks presentable, yes."

As he watched, the Commander turned to accept a small mug of wine from Nathaniel. Her gown was completely open in the back. "_Maker's hand_."

Anders felt himself drifting toward her. He blindly groped for a reason to pull her aside or to at least get her away from the Seneschal. That man could talk and talk and not actually say a bloody thing. But Anders paused halfway across the hall. Nathaniel had wedged himself into the group and now he was talking to the Commander and she was _laughing_. When had Nathaniel ever said a funny thing in his life?

Dumbstruck, Anders watched as Nathaniel asked the Seneschal to please hold their cups. Then he took the Commander's hand and led her over to the dancers. _No, this is all wrong. I'm supposed to be dancing with her, I'm…_

But his thoughts were interrupted by a wink of silver over his shoulder. He turned slowly, at the waist, and saw the knife and the way it was held, poised to throw. The man was wearing black, hidden behind a pillar. There had already been one assassination attempt on the Commander, could there really be another so soon? But Anders wasn't thinking, he was running, planting himself in front of the Commander. The knife was flying toward him, spinning end over end. The music ended abruptly. He held out his hand, summoning his powers as quickly as he could. Someone screamed. He wasn't fast enough.

The knife struck him and stuck in his left shoulder. He stared down at it, mildly surprised, but detached from the pain.

A little purple shape blurred past. Anders was falling slowly to his knees, but through his dazed sight he could see the man in black being thrown to the ground. A knife materialized in the Commander's hand. Where had she kept it? There weren't many hiding places in that dress. Maker, why was he thinking about that at a time like this…

A flash of red. Another scream. The man's nose was running with blood, it dribbled into his mouth. The Commander was shaking him.

_Who sent you? Who sent you?_

Then it was all dark and Anders wondered if he would ever get the blood out of his favorite robe.


	4. Four

**Four**

"He's come-to, Velanna. Good work."

Anders blinked and groaned and reached for his head. "Am I dead? I thought the Fade would be… Fadier. And there would be women, so many women…"

"What am I then? A turnip?"

Anders knew that voice. He opened his eyes wider. The world swam, but he could see. Well, that was one good sign. The Commander stared down at him. She was holding something to his forehead, it was cool and wonderful and smelled of lavender.

"No, turnips are rounder. You're more like a carrot, I suppose, or a leek."

"And here I was going to say how glad I was you're alright."

Anders tried to smile but everything hurt. It didn't seem like _that_ bad of a wound. In fact, he'd lived through much worse. The Commander seemed to interpret his confusion.

"A poisoned blade," she said darkly. "But Velanna worked a miracle and you should be on your feet by tomorrow."

Anders nodded. That explained it. He rolled his head on the pillow. Something fat and warm was on his knees. That same something purred and nestled into the blanket. They had put him in his own room and now he could see the familiar curtains, feel the familiar softness of his bedclothes. Something twinkled on the bedside table. He swallowed a painful gulp. It was the necklace. They must have unearthed it in his robes.

"Your things are with the laundress," the Commander said. "Lila is confident she can make them good as new."

He looked down at his chest and realized it was completely bare. His left shoulder had been wrapped and bandaged to dress the knife wound.

"You undressed me?" Anders wheezed. "Naughty, naughty, Commander."

She rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair, leaving the compress on his head. "I'm afraid we weren't very gentle about it. I almost ripped your robe in two."

"Why oh _why_ wasn't I conscious for that?"

"Can we put him under again?" Velanna drawled. She was standing behind the Commander, her arms crossed over her chest. They were both still in their evening finery. "Please?"

"Tempting," the Commander said, "But I think it would be best if he got something to eat."

Velanna nodded. "I'll find a serving girl."

The elf disappeared, leaving Anders alone with Pounce and the Commander. The room was cool, fresh. The rains must have stopped. From the quality of light, Anders supposed it was early morning.

Anders wrangled himself into a sitting position and caught the compress as it fell off of his forehead. "Damn assassins, always ruining perfectly good parties. I wasn't even drunk yet."

The Commander crossed one leg over the other. There was a spot of dried blood on the front of her gown. His blood. Anders closed his eyes and tried to immerse himself in the image of Commander Tabris throwing herself on top of him and ripping open his clothes. Then he felt guilty for getting her nice dress dirty.

"This was in your robe," the Commander said, nodding toward the sapphire necklace.

"Thank you," Anders murmured, "For keeping it safe."

She shrugged. If she recognized the necklace from the merchant's stall she was doing a damn fine job of keeping it hidden. Anders was grateful for that. He couldn't muster the energy to explain his reasons for buying the jewel.

"What happened? Last I remember, you and Nathaniel were dancing the night away and Oghren was going round for round with Sigrun."

"You didn't have to take the blade for me," the Commander said gently. "His aim wasn't very good. He might have missed altogether. But thank you, for doing it anyway. It was very… brave of you."

Anders felt his face flush to the roots of his hair.

"And to answer your question," she continued, "he was hired by one of the conspirators. Apparently they contracted him before we wiped them out. He had no idea his employers had already failed to kill me once and that they had lost their lives in the attempt."

"He told you all of this?"

"Yes. After I slowly removed a few of his fingernails."

"Youch." Anders winced.

"Kidding."

"Oh. Of course."

"He was pretty compliant once I told him that any harm that befell you would be revisited double on him. I just showed him a knife and it all came tumbling out," she said. There were deep bags under her eyes. Anders wondered if she had slept at all. "He was young, hardly more than a boy. I let him go after reminding him that he was alive only because my mage was showing signs of recovery."

My mage. Anders liked the sound of that. A serving girl appeared at the door, a tray heaped high with steaming food. Anders felt his stomach rumble in response. The Commander stood, beckoning the girl to come in and drop off her burden.

"I'll leave you two alone," she said, gesturing toward Pounce. The girl scuttled out of the room. Anders fought the urge to ask the Commander to stay. He liked the idea of having company, of her staying with him while he healed. _What is the matter with you, man? She's the Commander. She has better things to do than fuss over your pitiful wound._

He reached for his bread and pulled off a healthy chunk. As the Commander turned to go, Anders looked at the beautiful slope of her bare back. The muscles were graceful, sinuous, and the tiny hills of her vertebrae might have been the dunes of a snow-white desert. She put her hand on the door and gave him one final nod as she shut the door.

Anders might have imagined it, but he could've sworn he saw her glancing at the naked expanse of his chest. His heart swelled at the thought.

* * *

"You know, I thought after the knife thing I might get a doctor's note – good for one day of not trudging through the fucking mud."

Anders kicked hard at a stone on the path and winced when it didn't dislodge like he hoped. Nathaniel muttered something at his side. The Commander was anxious to track down a few leads, concerned that wasting too much time at the keep would allow the Darkspawn time to move out of range. She was fascinated by the idea of talking Darkspawn and suited up and sent them out the door every time someone so much as mentioned seeing one.

Currently they were making for a hill where they would stop to make camp. His shoulder still ached and he still kept the sapphire necklace with him at all times. He was confident the right time to give it to her would reveal itself. He was also pretty sure they might all die before that moment arrived. There was a strange tension in the air every where they went, as if the whole world was heading toward a crisis. The Seneschal was convinced the Darkswawn would launch their final assault any day. It was all coming to a head and there was Anders, moping, soaking wet and still afraid to try his luck at cheering up their leader.

He was also dreadfully, dreadfully bored. Ser Pounce-a-lot wailed in his pack, angry for the rain and for the injustice of being carted all over the land. It was a miracle the cat had survived, but Anders wasn't about to leave Pounce alone in the keep. The mabari there were ruthless and Pounce wasn't big enough to protect himself.

"Darkspawn up ahead!"

The Commander drew her swords, moving into position. Anders sighed and readied his staff. In the gloom of twilight he could see the flashing red eyes of their opponents. The Darkspawn trundled down the hill toward them, axes flailing, fanged-mouths foaming with spit. Oghren rushed forward, clobbering the nearest Darkspawn with his two-handed axe. This was just a search party, hardly much of a challenge. That boredom surged in Anders again. A thought occurred to him, a very dangerous thought. Perhaps it was time for a bit of fun… If he couldn't work up the nerve to tell the Commander to her face that she was turning him into a pile of mush, he could at least _hint_ at it in other ways…

Besides, she'd probably never notice.

Anders dug deep, concentrating, recalling powers he reserved for the direst of circumstances. Beside him, Velanna swept her hand across the air, green sparkles descending over the Commander in a bright shower. A tree uprooted itself and attacked the Darkspawn, clawing at them with hoary branches. Anders closed his hands into fists, maneuvering his spell through the air. He needed it to come upon the Commander and only the Commander. Groping Oghren with his mind was just about the last thing he wanted…

The Commander pitched herself forward, digging her shoulder into a Darkspawn's shield, throwing it off balance. She took his hand off at the wrist and then stuck her sword completely through his chest. When she withdrew her sword she stumbled back a little to catch her breath. There were only two left, and Oghren and Justice were making quick work of them. Anders saw his chance.

This wasn't easy, this sort of magic. Most mages couldn't do it even after years of study. It was a kind of projection, and it was considered risky to attempt even for the most seasoned mages. It could take any form – fire, cold, wind or even healing energy. Anders chose healing energy, it felt like the gentlest way to experiment. With his eyes still closed, he sought the Commander on the field ahead. Then he spun his magic around her, hugging her tightly, letting it drift over her shoulders and dip down into the gap in her armor. He couldn't help but smile, grinning like a fool as he swept the healing waves over the lip of her shirt and onto her bare skin.

He had never gotten the spell to work so accurately. Anders couldn't feel her or see her but he could sense what he was doing and where his energy went. It only lasted a moment, and he was quickly exhausted. He opened his eyes, breaking the spell, and sighed as his power surged a little again. His skin prickled and he felt a glowing heat in his belly.

_ What a rush._

Anders tucked his staff back into its leather holster on his back and started up the hill behind the others. He watched the Commander closely. She removed her helmet and he could see her expression clearly. She looked… confused, startled. With one hand she brushed the armor over her chest. _Just try and figure it out._

He felt giddy, like a teenager, using magic to pull off all kinds of raunchy stunts. He had set more than a few skirts on fire, literally, and enjoyed the view as the female victim flapped her dress all over the place to put out the flames. This was better though, sneakier, and it had given him a bizarre jolt of excitement.

Boredom assuaged, he fell into conversation with Velanna, who was quick to comment that he hadn't been much help in the fight.

"If I have to do all the work," she said with a sigh, "You'll be out of a job and back in the tower."

Anders shrugged. Let her think what she wanted. Velanna had no idea just how hard he had been working during the fight. They made camp at the top of the hill and, thankfully, the rain stopped. The cold remained, a clammy, grotesque chill that didn't let up even when the fire was roaring. Anders dutifully helped Nathaniel set up the tents and played with Pounce while the Commander made them food. She always insisted on cooking. She had a knack for it, too. It was never hard tack and salted pork, always hearty soups and stews she made by hand.

His curiosity got the better of him, so he left Pounce to play with Sigrun and joined the Commander at the fire. She was busy peeling carrots, kneeling over a deep black cauldron that smelled like savory, salty heaven. Anders knelt on a blanket a few inches away, clearing his throat to make his presence known.

The Commander said nothing, continuing her work with endearing focus.

"Where did you learn to cook?" he asked. And then quickly added, "And if you say you picked it up around Fereldin I'll stab your eyes out."

"Very well," she said quietly. "I learned it from a mage, actually. Wynne, you met her at the chantry in Amaranthine. You must have known her in the tower, too, I suppose. Anyway, she was appalled at the way we were eating on the road. I was the only one who volunteered to learn, so I became her pupil."

The Commander finished peeling the carrots and diced them with a boot knife.

"Is that sanitary?"

"You drank Darkspawn blood," she replied calmly, "sanitary doesn't really enter into it."

They were silent. Anders looked at the back of her neck, the graceful sculpture of her pointed ear. He had always wanted to kiss a woman there, at the little gap behind her ear, but never gotten a chance to. His physical interactions with women were far more lusty than loving.

"It was you, wasn't it?"

Anders opened and closed his mouth. Oh Maker. Well, she was quick on the uptake, wasn't she?

"I beg your pardon?"

"I know it was you, Anders. Velanna is a friend but she's too smart to try something like that."

_ Shit, shit, shit, shit…_

"It was an accident." _Clumsy lie_. "It won't happen again."

Her shoulders tightened. Anders wanted to look away from her face, but couldn't. She looked so wounded, like he had insulted her, and not in their cute, bantering way, but really violated something deep inside of her. Instantly, he regretted his foolish stunt.

"I… um… I sometimes forget that…"

"Yes?" she waited for him. Her eyes ignited in the fire. "What do you forget, Anders?"

This really wasn't the place, but…

"What happened to you?" he asked, lowering his voice to an intense whisper. She didn't look away, but he saw her bite down hard on her lower lip. "Who… Did this to you?"

Anders half-expected her to cuff him across the face or do that woman thing and insist on playing ignorant. But she did neither. She looked ready to burst, to cry. Anders held his breath, wondering if there was really enough trust between them for this conversation.

"The King," she said finally in a hoarse whisper. "It's a long story, Anders, and it ends badly."

"The King's a fool," Anders said simply.

"So am I."

She stood and left him, giving her full attention to making supper. Anders wasn't sure whether he had just made some kind of break through or squandered all of his goodwill. He wouldn't touch her with his magic again, even though he wanted to, even though his fingers burned to touch her skin. It was hard to remember that she had feelings. She was ever the gruff commander, barking orders, getting things done… Sometimes he entirely forgot that there was also a woman there, a woman who had been through absolute hell.

Anders was not a jealous type. He didn't mind competing with other men. Nathaniel wasn't much of a rival. But he suddenly felt murderous. King Alistair Theirin, lord high panty-melter of Fereldin, had done something irrevocably evil to Tavia Tabris. Anders watched her handing out food across the fire. His appetite fled. He would squeeze the life out of King Alistair if he ever got the chance. Not that he probably would, but it would sure as hell make him feel better.

Twilight soon turned to night and Anders felt determined to atone for his earlier mistake. Oghren and Sigrun fell asleep beside the fire, both of them drunk to the point of unconsciousness. Justice retreated to the trees to keep watch. He was handy that way, not needing to eat or sleep. Velanna disappeared into her tent and Nathaniel went to his. Anders lingered by the fire, cradling Pounce, wondering if it would be too forward to…

_ Oh to hell with forward. Make up your mind, asshole._

"Commander," he stood, playing nervously with his earring. "I um, here, take this," he reached into his pack and pulled out a rumpled blanket. He forced it into her hands. Tavia stared at it blankly, as if she had never encountered a blanket before.

"I have plenty of blankets, Anders. Thank you."

"Not like this," he said, blushing. "It's… enchanted. It adjusts its own heat according to your body temperature. It really does help with the chill."

"Does it ward off nightmares?" she asked, staring up at him with her enormous blue eyes.

"I… no, I don't believe it does."

"Then keep it. I'll take my chances with the cold."


	5. Five

**Five**

For the next two nights, Anders didn't sleep. It's not that he wasn't tired, because he was, exhausted in fact, but because he was driven by a kind of romantic madness.

"It _must_ be possible," he muttered, sitting cross-legged on his bed. They had returned to Vigils Keep, no talking Darkspawn found and no closer to understanding the evil miasma overtaking the lands. Anders could practically feel doom marching toward them. The attack would come any day, any second, and all they could do was wait.

_Infuriating_.

"Son of a whore!"

Anders tossed the failed blanket across the room. Maybe he was going about this all wrong. He had never been much of an enchanter. He could whip a spell at mind-boggling speeds toward an enemy, but ask him to make a ruby glow and he was hopeless. The warming blanket had been a fluke, a lucky chance. Now that he was actually _trying_ to enchant something, his skills fled.

He fell back into remembrances, as he always did when he was frustrated to the point of insanity. This journey was supposed to be a way out of dying. He had intended to be a Grey Warden until it was no longer convenient, then he would disappear, find his phylactery, destroy it and live freely. But of course, life was never so simple. The Commander had to waltz into his world and turn everything upside down. Fat wife, cute little children, mistresses as far as the eye could see… That was the life for Anders. Now he was chasing a Warden all over the grossest parts of Fereldin, risking his life every day and absolutely, above all else, not getting laid… This did not hold with the patterns of his youth.

And yet… he didn't hate it. Wasn't love the thing that gave life meaning? If he was going to die, and he probably would in the final assault on the keep, wasn't going out in a flash of brilliant sparks better than limply fading away, never to be remembered? Sure, a quiet home life with daily sex was easy to appreciate, but maybe it would bore him to death.

Pounce crawled into his lap, miffed that so many good blankets were going to waste. Anders stroked the tabby's back and tried to pin down the exact moment he had become infatuated with the Commander. There was that whole "at first sight" thing, but that wasn't very accurate or meaningful. Sure, on a physical level he appreciated her right away, and when he bought the jewel in Amaranthine it might have been for love… But the real moment of revelation came… When?

He poured over his memories of her, of which there were many. Hardly a day went by when they weren't together in some capacity – eating breakfast in silence, directing work on the keep, keeping Oghren from killing himself with too much liquor. Eventually he decided on a moment. It was when he realized that, underneath her hard, fearless exterior, she had a frank desire to do good. That was so unlike him. Perhaps opposites really did attract, since he liked cats and she liked dogs, he was a mage and she favored the sword, he was chronically cynical and she sought to bring others hope…

Yes, he definitely had the moment. He tipped his head back against the wall, stretching out his legs, diving into the memory with unmitigated zeal. They were taken prisoner in the Wending Wood, their clothing taken, their armor and weapons removed. They had even taken Pounce, which was really the final insult.

They were still few in those days, no Justice or Sigrun yet. Anders had woken first, naked except for a miniscule pair of worn shorts. Nathaniel and Velanna lay in a heap, Oghren splayed out on his back next to them. That was an image he hoped to forget, seeing Oghren in so little, but then there was the Commander… She had been tossed in the opposite corner, alone, stripped down to her small clothes. He went to her, carefully lifting her face from the cold, hard stone.

And she had opened her eyes, looked at him and propelled herself into his arms. There was no hesitation, just pure, beautiful relief. She was _overjoyed_ to see him, to see that he was alive and that she was, too. He hadn't even had time to focus on the bewitching warmth of her skin or the sensation of her breasts pressed against him, because she was running to the others, waking them, hugging them, too. This was who she was. Tavia Tabris, their protector…

That gave Anders an idea. Perhaps the trick wasn't to make the blanket ward against nightmares, but to conjure pleasant dreams. He went back to work, pushing Pounce to the side. He wasn't going to risk accidentally turning his pet into a marshmallow. His idea seemed right, the work flowed, and for once he actually felt like a skilled enchanter.

His task finished, Anders held up the blanket and admired it from several different angles. Then he curled up on the bed, tucked the blanket around his middle and waited. Yes, yes! It was actually working! He felt… happy, contented, drawn down into a joyous slumber. How nice. He would have to arrange one for himself.

Anders leapt off the bed, confident he had perfected the enchantment, and went to find the Commander.

He found her, not as he usually did, with the Seneschal, but alone in her quarters. She was hardly ever there. Anders wondered if the woman ever got a wink of sleep. He knocked, waited, knocked again. She appeared at the door, dressed in a simple white tunic and leggings. What little hair she had was rumpled from sleep.

"Oh bugger it, did I wake you?"

"It's alright, Anders. What is it?"

"Ta-da!"

Anders swept the navy blue blanket over her shoulder. She fingered the edge of it, testing its softness. "More blankets? I told you I have plenty."  
"It will ward off the nightmares," Anders said, beaming. "It works. I tested it."

"You… By the Maker…" She looked at the blanket with renewed interest. She opened the door, allowing him in. "What a triumph! Let's have a drink to celebrate."

Anders couldn't believe his luck. She beckoned him inside and placed the blanket on her bed. He had never imagined her quarters to be so charming. There were tapestries everywhere, thick, expensive curtains and a bed that looked impossibly soft. Anders fought the urge to push her onto it. It wasn't that kind of invitation to come in.

He wandered over to her book shelf while she poured out a measure of brandy for them. Her collection was impressive, ranging from poetry to battle tactics to philosophy and religion. He saw also a number of gorgeous Antivan daggers and silk pillows embroidered in the colors of Orlais.

"Gifts," she said with a wan smile, "from old friends."

"And now you have a magic blanket," Anders said excitedly, "Not quite as nice as the pillows, I guess."

"Different," she said, "but just as welcome."

He didn't know why he was surprised. She inspired loyalty wherever she went. Antivan daggers and Orlesian pillows made a weird kind of sense. She was a hodgepodge of people and experiences and battles she had won. He would go to his death numbering his friends on one hand. She would die and the heavens would weep for the loss. Anders took his brandy and lingered in the middle of the room, not quite sure where to put himself.

"How are you doing? All healed?"

Anders decided on a big, overstuffed chair in the corner by her desk. He almost expected to see a gallant portrait of the King, and then remembered that the King was a bastard, literally and figuratively.

"Good as new," Anders said, enjoy the brandy. He made a soft appreciative sound in the back of his throat.

"Also Antivan," she said.

"You have a lot of admirers."

"Ha, yes, well, this Antivan is the foul-mouthed whore-lover I spoke of once before. If he had his way, he would have been far more than an 'admirer'." She looked down at her glass, smiling, probably absorbed in some fond memory of said whore-chaser. Anders chuckled, tasting the brandy again. It filled his stomach with smoky warmth, contentment. He looked at his Commander. He liked her like this, dressed in something casual, so different from the shrieking warrior goddess he knew her to be. Her tunic slipped over one shoulder alluringly. Anders stared directly into his cup.

"Are you doing alright otherwise? I know it's… frustrating, waiting like this for the battle. Maker knows I just want to get it over with. The tension is almost worse than the fighting itself." She corrected her shirt and Anders felt safe to look at her again. Her face was softer and more feminine when it wasn't covered in blood splatter. Cute, even.

Yes, unbearable tension. Anders knew a thing or two about that.

"I'll be ready," Anders replied. "I'm a Grey Warden, right? We fight, we die, that's the job description I got anyway."

"Maybe, maybe not. I survived the Blight, we could survive this, too," she said. "And then what? What will the intrepid Anders do when Amaranthine is safe and the keep is secured?"

"Oh, you know me, I'll probably get apprehended by the Templars again and spend the rest of my life escaping and driving them completely up the wall." He shrugged. "Or, you know, help out around here, be a Grey Warden. What _do_ Grey Wardens do in the, um, not 'peak' times?"

"Orgies, Anders. Orgies all the time."

"Don't tease, Commander."

"Oh I'm dead serious. It's like an Orlesian brothel in here, limbs everywhere, you can hardly see through the fog of sweat. Moaning constantly, even Varel gets into it. We only stop to eat and occasionally sleep," Tavia said, smiling. "Actually it's a lot of boring training and recruiting with the occasional diplomatic mission."

"You're very good at that, you know. Dashing my hopes all to pieces. Is it fun for you? Do you enjoy it?" Anders sat back in his chair, feeling more at ease with her than ever before. He thought of his memory in the Silverite mine, of her half-naked body up against his. He buried his face in his brandy before his cheeks could give him away.

"I know you're a wanderer by nature," she said. "If you want to go, I won't stop you."

_Maker, I wish you would._

"Let's survive first," Anders said, "I just might surprise you."

"About surprises," she said, finishing her brandy. "You never did tell me what you were up to in Amaranthine that day. We might be going to our deaths, now's your chance to tell me."

His hand was in his pocket and closing around the necklace before he could clearly think it through. He had nearly put her into a rage by caressing her with magic… But maybe this was different. Anders dove right in, clinging to the fact that she was right. This might be his very last chance.

"I was buying this," he said, reaching across the floor to hand her the necklace. "Or actually, prying it from the hands of starving orphans. It's not as bad as it sounds. They got a good deal out of it."

Tavia set down her glass on the mattress and held the necklace in both palms, bringing it up to her eyes to study it closely. He saw the ghost of a smile flicker of her lips, something like nostalgia. His heart was going to choke him to death if it wasn't careful.

"That's… Did you know I was looking at this?"

"Lucky guess," he said, winking.

"You cad!" She broke into a fit of laughter. "I should kill you! I went back not two days ago to buy the thing and all I got out of the merchant was: 'bloody orphans.' The orphans told me they'd given it over to a strange man in a cloak. I was heartbroken!"

"I've been, um, saving it. I just saw you admiring it and I thought, well hell, she's always giving us things… Why not repay the favor?" Anders scratched the back of his neck, ducking his head to keep her from seeing just how hard it had been for him to fork it over.

"Thank you, Anders, that's… I'll cherish it always. See? You've earned a spot among the pillows after all."

_Oh Maker, don't talk about pillows, not when my chest is burning like an albino lost in a desert…_

Anders searched for her eyes, hoping to catch them and give her a look that was a bit more explanatory than a necklace. But she was too busy staring at the jewel, and then there was a knock at the door and Varel was there asking to see the Commander. Anders went out into the hallway, crestfallen and hopeful all at once. She liked the necklace, she hadn't strangled him or cried, so that was nice, but he hadn't gotten the chance to explain himself.

And he wouldn't get a chance to explain himself, because Amaranthine was burning and it was time to make their last stand.


	6. Six

**Six**

**Note: **Thank you to those who favorited this story. Please write a review if you enjoy it, it certainly helps the writing process!

It all happened too quickly. One moment she was fine, roaring in triumph as the Brood Mother lay dying before them. And then she was collapsing. Viscous, black fluid poured from her mouth, exploded out of her nose, pooled in the hollow of her neck, dripped down her silver armor…

Anders could heal almost any artificial wound with a wave of his staff, but this wasn't artificial and it wasn't coming from any source he could see. Nathaniel knelt over her, but Anders bowled him over. The whole place smelled of decay and something worse, something that reminded him of jellied smelt. The floor undulated beneath them, made of something Anders didn't even want to consider.

"Out of my way!" he bellowed, pushing the others aside. _He_ was the healer, _he_ would fix this.

"What in the name of all the winds is happening?" Velanna demanded, looming over him.

Anders collected his Commander into his arms, wiping away the black bile that just wouldn't stop coming out of her mouth. She was coughing, sputtering, reaching for his face…

"Where is it?" Anders whispered desperately. "Where are you hurt?"

It was hard to tell what was her blood and what belonged to the creatures they had slain. Anders pointedly did not look at the corpse of the Brood Mother, her horrific mouth splayed open and spitted on a sword. Tavia motioned to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, one of the weak points in her armor. Anders peeled her shirt back, revealing what looked to be only a deep scratch.

"Oh no, oh Maker. She's poisoned."

Velanna was on the floor beside him in the next instant. She shoved a potion into his hands, and together they held the Commander's head and tipped the vibrant green liquid down her throat. She coughed up most of it, but Velanna was certain some had gone down.

"That will have to hold her for now," Velanna whispered, "There's nothing more I can do for her here. We must bring her back to the keep."

Anders stood, bringing the Commander with him, cradling her in his arms. They fled back the way they had come, Anders's heart doing a jaunty version of a step dance in his chest. He couldn't look at Tavia or he would fall to his knees again. A continuous stream of black liquid flowed from her lips, dripping down his arm and leg.

The trip back to the keep was a nightmare. Vigils Keep stood, which was a relief, and they had the presence of mind to send a scout to look for the party who had gone to slay the Brood Mother. This patrol was a more welcome sight than any Anders could think of. They had horses, a small wagon and plenty of provisions. Anders insisted he take her on horseback directly to the keep. A wagon would be too slow and they had not a moment to lose. Velanna took the other spare horse, her medicinal powers as crucial as Anders's magical ones.

They rode through the night, stopping only to let the horses have brief respites and water. Varel met them at the gates with a smile and open arms, but soon wiped the grin off his face when he saw Anders sprinting toward him, a limp Commander across his arms. They had removed her armor for faster travel, and she looked small and shrunken in her tunic and hose.

"Call for every doctor you can find," Anders told Varel, for once acting the leader. "She mentioned a healer she knew in months past. Wynne was her name, she should be at the College, summon her and any others who will come."

This was insanity. If anybody should have made it out alive it should have been Tavia. She was the Hero of Fereldin, the strongest, bravest warrior he had ever known. And now she was dying in her arms, a husk of her former self.

Velanna trailed him up to the Commander's room. Anders kicked down the door, knowing it would be locked, and put her onto the bed with as much speed and tenderness as he could manage. He shrugged off his traveling coat, going to work immediately with his healing spells. He had already done this dozens of times and he knew it was the only thing that kept her holding on. Velanna set up a make-shift potion station on the Commander's desk.

"Hot water! Cloths! Any spare herbs you can find!" Velanna shouted a continuous stream of directions to the beleaguered boy at the door. Varel had disappeared to summon the mages and call for help from whoever else he could think of. Anders paused in his spell casting just long enough to accept the basin of scalding hot water from the serving boy. He wiped the crusted black spots from the Commander's face. He almost wished he hadn't. Beneath, her skin was deathly pale. He rinsed the scratch at her shoulder, which was clearly the source of her ailment. It simply refused to heal. A wound so small should've already begun knitting together, but it wept clear fluid, a red and raw tear in her flesh.

Soon Velanna was applying compresses to the wound, holding a warm cloth to the Commander's head while Anders embarked on another exhausting round of healing. Two hours later her fever seemed to break a little and she even managed a word or two.

"Bath," she sighed, "Please, so cold."

Anders probably deafened the house with the roar he gave for hot water. A determined group of boys staggered in with buckets of hot water, drawing a bath as quickly as their little arms were able. Varel appeared at the door.

"Velanna, there's a man here from the village. He has an entire cart of herbs for you. I said you would be down directly to pick out what you needed."

"Of course, thank you, Seneschal," she said, leaping off the bed. "I'll only be a moment, Anders."

"Yes, I can take it from here."

The Seneschal followed Velanna out and the boys, too. Anders could feel his body failing him. He needed to sleep, but there would be no rest until he was sure the Commander was stable. He wedged the broken door back into its frame as best he could. Then he lifted the Commander from the black-stained bed and brought her to the small wash room attached to her chambers. The deep, stone-tiled tub took up most of the room. It was fragrant with mint and Elfroot. Anders realized then that he should've asked Velanna to stay. Even in such dire circumstances, it felt wrong to undress Tavia without her consent.

And yet she had begged for a bath, and Anders wasn't about to deny a dying woman.

He knelt with her on the floor and tipped her forward into his arms. With a deep, steadying breath he stripped her tunic and hose and socks and tossed them into a corner. Something cold and hard fell against his neck. Anders pulled back, catching the sapphire necklace as it plummeted toward the stones.

"_Maker's breath_."

"Good… luck charm."

"Don't speak, Tavia. Save your strength."

Anders tucked the necklace into his robes for safekeeping and lifted her into the tub. He did his best to avert his eyes and respect her privacy, going so far as to stare at her feet while running the wash cloth over her arms and shoulders. She gave a shuddering sigh and seemed to fall asleep. He made a silent pact with himself. He was an honorable man now, different from who he used to be. He would not look at her naked body until she deemed him worthy to. He would win her love, one way or another, and on that day and that day only he would see her laid bare before him.

When she was clean and the water began to cool, Anders tucked her into a pair of towels and carried her back to the bed. He had to laugh – he had always wanted to carry her like this, but in his dreams it was to toss her onto a bed and ravish her. This was just about the worst case scenario.

For once, Anders felt like a full-on adult. She was in his care; her life was now his responsibility. So far he hoped he was making her proud. When she was back in bed and secured beneath clean sheets, Anders dressed her wound again and put another comforting cloth over her forehead. What a reversal of fortunes, he mused. Once, she had stayed up all night nursing him, seeing to his shoulder. _Maker_, he thought, _what an odd coincidence_. His old scarred wound seemed to throb in sympathy. He had been poisoned with a blade in his left shoulder, and the Commander was now poisoned by a barb in the exact same spot.

He sincerely hoped she would wake the next morning ready to slap him for bathing her and tease him for worrying so much. But Anders didn't dare expect that to happen. He hoped, but he wasn't foolish enough to think it would be so. This was no amateur poison, this was the seed of evil and it would take all of their expertise to root it out.

Anders fell asleep in the chair beside her bed, his head cradled on his arms, the sapphire necklace clasped in his hand. Her ragged breathing sang him to sleep. He did not dream at all. Exhaustion took him and carried him to oblivion and he was grateful for that smallest of mercies.


	7. Seven

**Seven**

**Note**: Just a bit of mature content in this one (I know, I know, at last!).

Wynne arrived midmorning the next day, borne on the wings of something Anders could only describe as motherly instinct. She shooed him out of the Commander's room, thanking him for his work and demanding that he rest. He would be no good to Tavia if he was drained and weak.

Before leaving, Anders tucked the necklace beneath Tavia's pillow, hoping it would bring her better luck than the last time it had been close to her.

He did as Wynne advised, but even after a hot bath and a shave, he couldn't sleep. He felt like a ghost, lifted out of his body, deadened by grief. Tavia was not improving. Her wound refused to heal, and she continued to cough up the hideous black fluid. In his deepest, darkest fears, Anders acknowledged that the Brood Mother might have infected Tavia with whatever nightmare poison turned women into those… _things_. He shuddered. He would die before he let her become such a demon.

The rest of the patrol returned to the keep, Oghren, Justice, Nathaniel and Sigrun among them. They had stopped in Amaranthine to pick up a few healers. There would be a conference in the great hall to discuss possible treatments. Anders would not be present. He had no interest in listening to strangers talk about the tragedy unfolding in the keep.

With the wagon, the rest of his possessions and the Commander's things arrived. He stole her pack before anyone had the chance to look through it. He brought it to his chambers, unpacking the items while Pounce circled nervously at the foot of the bed. The pack had a faint smell of old roses, but he found no trace of an actual flower in the bag. He found spare socks, bandages, knives, and other boring, practical gear. The warding blanket was there, too, folded neatly and unstained.

Anders took the blanket and held it up. Then, feeling foolish and slightly creepy, smelled it. She had slept in the blanket. After spending the night in Tavia's room, he knew quite accurately what she smelled like. He was glad she had gotten use out of it, and considered delivering the blanket to her now. Then he remembered Wynne and her stern, motherly ferocity and decided better of it.

Instead, he wrapped himself up in the blanket and lay down, determined to rest and recover. He needed to be strong.

The blanket performed as advertised. At once, Anders felt more contented. He smiled goofily, snuggling down deeper into his mattress. Then something very strange and unexpected began to happen, something he hadn't waited long enough to feel when he first tested the enchantment. The blanket hugged him, actually _hugged_ him, molding to the contours of his body. He felt a warm, familiar flush bloom in his lower abdomen. Suddenly, he was more than content, he was aroused, lulled into a warm state of heightened awareness.

The blanket squeezed him and he wondered if he was already asleep.

He was plunging into a dream, hard and fast, with no hesitation. He was back in Tavia's room, kneeling beside the tub. But she was smiling at him, awake and perfectly healthy, no trace of a wound on her shoulder. She splashed him playfully, her eyes dancing with blue fire. Anders drank her in, the hard lines of her cheekbones that led to the adorable apple swell of her cheeks. Her generous, feminine lips and button nose… She reached out for him, tugging on his robes. Anders reacted instantaneously, pulling the robe over his head and tossing it aside.

Tavia touched his bare chest, her fingertips warm and wet and stroking up to his neck. Anders writhed into the blanket, suddenly so aflame he could hardly stand it. In the dream, she tugged on his shoulder and Anders slid into the tub, crawling on top of her like a serpent gliding onto a rock. She took him by the hair and forced his mouth down onto her. Her lips tasted like summer cherries. Anders groaned into her mouth and then smiled as she loosed his hair and tossed the band away. Nobody ever saw him with his hair down. He was about to smile shyly, but her hands were already raking through his hair, smoothing it, spreading it, testing the texture...

Anders shivered. Her nails rasped over his scalp.

"Like gold," she whispered, touching his forehead, "strands of liquid gold."

"I've waited for this," Anders said into her lips, "You don't know… How long…"

"I do," she said, arching into him. He remembered then there was so much more of her, not just a beautiful face and graceful neck, but shoulders and arms and… Maker… Everything else. Anders squished in beside her, forcing her to move and sit atop him. She placed one thigh on either side of his legs and sat on his knees.

Anders grabbed her breasts, squeezing them, molding them into his palms until he was certain he'd memorized their shape, their weight and softness. Tavia squirmed against him, grinding down on him in a way that was going to kill him any second. His heart was simply going to explode out of his chest, ruin the bath water and that would be the end of it. He twisted her nipples, determined to draw every delicious sound out of her throat. He wanted to know the intricacies of her arousal, he wanted to name and number every sigh and gasp and know what they meant.

Anders placed one trembling hand behind her neck and drew her mouth to his again, reveling in the warm, sweet taste. He kissed her, fiercely, using his tongue to mimic exactly what a different appendage would be doing momentarily.

"I will possess you, Commander," he growled into her neck, licking her jaw. "I will have you in this bath and then I will have you in your bed, and on your floor. Before this night is over you will beg for more and then beg for mercy and I will give you both. Freely. With all my heart."

Anders was going to tear the blanket in half. He could feel her thighs on his, the silky juncture in between, his own rock hard desire rising up to meet her. He cried out, startling himself awake. Panting, Anders looked down at his lap, where a dark, wet spot grew on the blanket.

_ Maker, I haven't done that since…_

He didn't want to think about it, because at that moment he had a horrifying realization. He hadn't made a warding blanket at all. It didn't just lull you to sleep with pleasant thoughts, it actually…

_ If she ever gets better, I'm a dead man._

But she had slept in the blanket, presumably before the final battle, so why… She never said a word. Perhaps because, was it possible? She _enjoyed_ it? Anders turned onto his back, groaning with humiliation. He was disgusted with himself, with what had just happened, and then with his own unbelievable stupidity.

Someone pounded at the door. Anders sat up, wondering how his day could get any worse. No, there was no way, nothing could be worse. He heard Nathaniel's voice on the others side of the door.

"Get up and get dressed. We're meeting downstairs. The King of Ferelden marches to Vigils Keep."


	8. Eight

**Eight**

**Note**: I should mention here that I'm a huge fan of Alistair and romanced the hell out of him. But for the purposes of this story he's been changed by royal duties, which doesn't strike me as inconceivable.

Anders hated admitting to himself that there was only one man who could help him in this dark, foreboding hour.

He found Oghren outside, which was unusual, drinking an enormous mug of ale, which was not. Anders strode up to the dwarf, his body so fatigued he didn't trust his legs to operate properly. He might topple over at any second, but not before he fulfilled his duties to the Commander. Oghren looked suitably surprised to see him, and wiped his foamy lips with the red braids of his beard.

"Alright, listen to me you fuzzy little lump – you're going to tell me exactly what I need to know. No arguments, no lies. Just information."

Oghren raised both eyebrows, taking another deep swig from his drink.

"Well good morning to you, too."

Anders didn't mean to, but his rage had triggered something uncontrollable. A shockwave rippled out from his chest, knocking Oghren back onto the cement bench behind him. The dwarf sat up quickly, trying not to slosh beer down his front. He looked like he couldn't decide whether to kill Anders for spilling his beer or pushing him over.

"Settle down, kid, I was only joking."

"I don't have time for jokes, dwarf."

"That's a first…"

"Look," Anders curled his hands into fists, "King Theirin is on his way here, now, this very moment. The Commander isn't even close to being recovered. If she wakes up and the first thing she sees is his ugly mug staring down at her, then the stress could undo all of our work. And… Maker, I don't know, she might kill all of us, too. I need to know what happened between them. I need to know what we're up against here."

"You sure that's the only reason?" Oghren asked, smirking behind his mug. "Anyway, kid, you could just go ask Wynne. She's a magicky-type like you."

"I can't interrupt her, she'd freeze my balls off with one look. I just need the facts, Oghren. Please."

Anders had never addressed the dwarf so politely, but desperate times…

"Fine, sit down," Oghren said, making room on the bench. Anders tried to keep his distance. Oghren was even more fragrant than usual.

"Yadda, yadda, Blight, yadda, last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, blah, blah, blah, blossoming bloody romance." Oghren drank from his mug, smacking his lips with nostalgia. "Those two were thick as thieves, thought they would last through anything. Even fooled me. When we finally caught up to King Loghain in Denerim, the Commander beat his ass. Soundly. But she refused to execute the man in front of his own daughter, said it just wasn't right. So she conscripted him instead."

"So?" Anders hissed, impatient. "That all makes sense to me."

"Sure it does, until you realize that Loghain was responsible for killing Alistair's half-brother and his mentor, Duncan. The Commander wouldn't carry out Alistair's revenge and it… It broke something in Alistair. He turned on her, called her all sorts of shit you couldn't pay me to repeat. In the end, the Commander saved their lives by conscripting Loghain, and I think Alistair tried to reconcile with her but it was too late. You can't take back words like that, you just can't." Oghren sighed into his cup. It was empty.

"I think that's the deepest thing you've ever said."

"I wouldn't get used to it." Oghren shrugged and went on, drawing on a huge, tired breath. "I think Tabris, secretly, expected to rule beside Alistair. Hell, she'd never admit it, but I know she was thinking it. Who wouldn't? She practically saved the damn world. And it's a sodding shame. She would've been the better choice. But Alistair had the blood, and in these parts that's all it takes."

"So what, they just sent her packing to Vigils Keep? Swept her under the rug?" Anders asked.

"Oh they tried to offer her some bullshit advisory position, but she told those pussies to go fuck themselves, right to their faces. Proudest moment of my damn life."

"This is a disaster," Anders whispered, dropping his head into his hands. "The King is out of his mind if he actually thinks the Commander will be happy to see him."

"Alistair never was the sharpest axe in the armory."

"Thank you, Oghren, for your honesty." Anders stood, feeling the weight of sleeplessness and fear bearing down on him from all sides.

"If you love her, and I'm pretty damn sure you do, you'll be here when the King arrives. She's braver than me on a bender, but nobody deserves to be ambushed like that." Oghren tipped his mug upside down and shook it, trying to eke out the last droplets of ale.

"Of course I'll be here, why wouldn't I?" Anders asked.

"Heh. Because the King's a former Templar, and I know how you just _love_ those types."

* * *

"You have to stop this, Varel."

"Stop it? Stop it how?"

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose. Varel paced the width of the great hall, worrying his fingernails down to nubs. The rains had lifted for good and sunshine streamed in through the high stained-glass windows. This did nothing to comfort Anders. Good weather would only speed the King's arrival. Anders felt sick at the thought.

"We at least have to warn her," Anders said, trying to keep his temper. "She's ill, very ill, you can't just spring this on her."

"What can I do, Anders? He's the King. I can't turn him away!" Varel threw up his hands and then muttered something incoherent under his breath. "Look, why don't you mention it to her, the next time she wakes? She trusts you."

"What? Are you _joking_? Tell me, are you familiar with the expression shoot the messenger? I go in there and start talking about King Alistair and it will be _dismember_ the messenger." Anders shook his head with incredulity. He would rather stick his hand down a feral mabari's throat than mention Alistair's name in the Commander's presence, especially when she was just barely hanging on. Wounded animals were always the most dangerous.

"You have to stall him," Anders said at last. "When he arrives… Can you manage that much?"

Varel nodded his head curtly. Anders had work to do, too much work to do. On the one hand it was good news that the Commander was still breathing, on the other hand… King Alistair. Anders didn't want to consider the possibility that the King was coming to try and make nice with the Commander. He respected the Commander enough to trust her to do the right thing. But she was sick, vulnerable, and a familiar face could go a long way…

No, it would never happen. Anders had seen with his own eyes the way she became visibly angry when she spoke about the King, and Oghren confirmed his suspicions that Alistair had torn their relationship beyond repair.

And there was something that stuck in the back of Anders's throat, a concern that gave him pause. There was no way the King could have learned of her illness so quickly. He must have been on his way to the keep anyway for other reasons. But why?

Anders left the great hall at a trot. The keep was in an uproar, servants flying in every direction as they tried to make the place presentable for the King. It made Anders's blood boil. They should've been attending the Commander, waiting outside her door to see what could be done to help. Instead, everyone was focused on the King's imminent arrival, and leaving Wynne and Velanna to do all the work. Anders knew better than to try and push his way into the Commander's room. Two women united in purpose were about as flexible as a boulder.

No matter what he did, time seemed to speed up. The hours ticked by like seconds, each anxious moment carrying the King closer to the keep.

* * *

Anders heard the horns sound over the battlements and deflated. His time was up. It was evening. It had been almost a full day since his last visit to the Commander's chambers. He ate to keep busy, finding that he was intensely hungry, and that his hunger had become directly proportional to his worry.

He left the kitchens and sprinted for the Commander's rooms. Oghren had planted a seed of fear in Anders's head that the King would arrest him on sight. There was still the small matter of Rylock's body rotting at the bottom of a lake somewhere. But he was a Grey Warden and therefore there was no safer position than at the Commander's side. Anders didn't like to think of himself as a coward, but a smart man was a living man.

Wynne let him in without much of a fight. She sensed, as he did, that Alistair's coming was a dark tiding. He found the old mage woman stroking the Commander's head, singing to her softly a lullaby he recognized from childhood. Velanna was gone, probably meditating in the gardens somewhere. Wynne rose as he entered the room.

"You're out of breath," she observed quietly. "I take it those horns mean the King has come?"

"Indeed," Anders said. "I would like to stay with her."

"I'll greet Alistair at the doors," Wynne replied. "Perhaps I can put him in the proper frame of mind. It will be a shock to him to see her like this and I have worked too hard to see her slip again."

Wynne inclined her head toward Anders and he returned the gesture. She was the sort of mage he could respect. She wasn't an apostate, but she walked to the beat of her own drum, and he could admire that. Anders took the now empty chair beside the Commander's bed. Wynne and Velanna had begun to bring her round. She looked much less pale, and while she dozed, she was smiling gently, as if dreaming of something pleasant. Anders was relieved to find her so improved, but dreaded the moment of her waking. There was the blanket to think about, and now the damn bloody King…

The door opened slowly. Anders fought the urge to take the Commander's hand. A gnarled old codger in a velvet tunic and livery appeared. He bowed curtly at the waist.

"The King wishes to see the Commander," he said. Anders had to wonder just how many sword hilts were shoved up the man's ass to produce a voice that pinched.

"One moment," Anders replied. It took all of his strength not to zap the man directly in the forehead. He turned to the Commander and squeezed her shoulder until her eyelashes fluttered on her cheek. "Commander, are you well enough for visitors? The, um… _King_ has come to see you."

If only he had been given one more moment to bring her around gently. Instead, the King was already in the room, taking up an immense amount of space with his big, broad body and his glittering royal armor. He cleared his throat and Anders sat back, giving the Commander a clear view of her guest.

So much for waking her gradually. Her eyes shot open and she sat straight up in bed. Before Anders could stop her, she was hurling something round and silver at the King's head.

"What the _fuck_ is he doing here?"

_ Ladies and gentlemen, the woman of my dreams…_

King Alistair narrowly avoided the projectile, which clattered against the wall behind him. Before he could open his mouth to explain himself, the Commander was leaning forward, panting hard, still visibly weak. "Come to bury me, have you? Sorry to disappoint. You know, it's generally customary to wait until _after_ the person's actually dead to wear mourning black."

Anders followed her eyes to the King, who was indeed wearing a black tabard and cloak over his armor. _Busted_. It was terribly difficult to stop from laughing. Anders wondered if, since becoming King, Alistair had ever gotten such an enthusiastic welcome.

"Tavia, calm yourself. For the love of the Maker, I'm not here to bury you." The King took a step closer, raising his hands in placation. In her presence he didn't look much like a king, more like a frightened child. Even Tavia at her weakest seemed to reduce him to a sniveling brat.

"Obviously not, you moron, because I'm still breathing. What do you want?"

"There… Will be time to discuss that later. I only wanted to see you first…"

_ Oh cry me a bloody river, you git._

"Anders, get him out of here."

Music to his ears. Anders had a very special talent for evicting Templars. This one was the King, of course, but he was acting on orders… Did Grey Warden commands supersede those of the King? Bah, he didn't much care at the moment.

"My pleasure," Anders drawled, standing. Apparently the King wasn't leaving fast enough, because another object sailed past Anders's shoulder toward Alistair's ginger head.

"Tavia, don't. I will restrain you if I must."

_ Wrong answer._

A force field erupted around Anders, forcing the King back toward the door. Alistair grunted, surprised and then angry, his brown eyes flashing with rage. He tried to push his way past the dome of sparkling energy, but found himself stumbling backwards. He raised one gloved finger and pointed it at Anders.

"_That_ was a mistake, mage."

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about your coronation."

"Peace, Anders. Close the door."

Anders did as the Commander asked, but not before twinkling his fingers at Alistair and mouthing, "Bye-bye." The look on his dopey face could sustain Anders for decades.

When he turned back to the Commander, she was slumped against the pillows, limp, as if someone had sucked the breath and strength right out of her body. Anders paused, finding that one of the objects she had hurled at the King was the sapphire necklace. He picked it up and brought it to her bedside.

"That was unkind of me," she said quietly.

"He'll get over it."

"No, I mean the necklace. I wasn't thinking. I felt something hard beneath my pillow and grabbed it. It was the nearest thing. I was hoping it was a knife, actually." She smiled, the first real smile Anders had seen since she had sustained the poisoned wound. Well, besides that little dream of his, although that was a lot less smiling and a lot more moaning. He coughed into his hand and slipped the necklace into her lap.

"You were trying to assassinate the King?" Anders asked mischievously.

"Well… When you put it like that, perhaps it's fortunate the necklace was there."

Anders pointed to the jewel. "It's unharmed, just a tiny scratch on the gem. It's a keepsake now. You can look at it and fondly remember the time you winged a necklace at the King of Ferelden."

"What else did I throw?" she asked, smirking.

Anders searched the floor. "A book. Just a small one."

"Blast it. O for two." Anders watched her gaze out the window. Outside, in the courtyard, the King was speaking to the liveried old man who had announced his arrival. The King was waving his arms around in agitation, pacing and, in all probability, shouting.

"Was this the necklace we found in your robe the night of the ball?" she asked.

"Indeed."

"Funny. I didn't recognize it. I suppose I was too worried that you would be permanently hurt," she said. The Commander ran her thumb over the scratched jewel.

"You shouldn't worry about me, Commander. If you haven't noticed, I've got a bit of a knack for survival."

"But I do worry, Anders." She frowned, catching his eyes. His breath hitched, and for a moment he was sure she would say something to melt his heart. "You should not have taunted the King. I'm immune, but only because he needs my support. If I so much as raise my voice against him, his popularity will plummet."

Not exactly heart-melting, but it was a start.

"So why don't you?" Anders asked.

"And who would that benefit?" But she was smiling and laughing softly to herself.

"Well, nobody, but I'm sure it would make you feel better."

"For a time, yes," she replied, "Until it fell to me to piece the country back together."

Tavia looked down at the courtyard again. The King's face was so red you could hail a ship with it. She sighed and shook her head. "His coming concerns me."

"I think his timing is a coincidence. He must have been marching here even before you fell ill." Anders hoped it was the right thing to say. He wasn't much of a military strategist, but even he could see the inconsistencies.

"My thoughts exactly. He wants something. And now all that remains is for me to find out what that is." She sounded beyond tired. The King's timing really couldn't have been worse. She needed rest and quiet, not the machinations of royalty cluttering up her mind and house.

"I think I'll dress and go down to meet him," the Commander said, still idly running her hand across the necklace. "Better to get this over with and send him on his way."

"Are you sure? You shouldn't be on your feet yet."

"I'll be just fine. Or haven't you noticed?" she asked with a wink. "I have a bit of a knack for survival."


	9. Nine

**Nine**

"Your mage has a death wish."

It really was an ingenious bit of magic. Anders had never attempted it before, but he understood the principal well enough. One simply gave temporary surrogacy to another creature or object, and that object acted as your eyes or ears. Anders chose ears. He also chose Ser Pounce-a-lot, who looked absolutely scandalized to be the target of magic. Anders loosed the cat in the courtyard and, like a big, armored moth to the flame, King Ass-hat called the kitten over and scooped him up into his arms.

Anders watched the conversation unfolding from his room. He had a clear view down the courtyard and could keep an eye on the King and the Commander. The little orange and brown lump in the King's arms would transmit everything Anders needed to know. He felt just the tiniest twinge of guilt for: one, performing magic on a defenseless fuzz ball, and two, eavesdropping on the Commander. He couldn't care less about violating the King's privacy, but he would probably be facing down a pointy, pointy object if the Commander found out about this.

Still, Anders wasn't going to pass up this opportunity. The King was up to something and Anders would find out first hand.

"He does _not_ have a death wish," the Commander was saying. "He was acting out my orders."

"Maybe so, but don't tell me he wasn't enjoying it."

_ Of course I enjoyed it, you idiot. Who wouldn't?_

They were silent for a moment, the Commander letting his complaint go without comment. At one time, they must have made a magnificent couple. Anders had eyes in his head; he could see that the King was an uncommonly handsome man. Not that he _enjoyed_ seeing Tavia walking next to Alistair, but he couldn't help but recall Oghren's words. Alistair should have fought tooth and nail to put her on the throne. They would have made a spectacularly regal royal pair.

_ Your loss, Templar._

It was strange to watch them together. The Commander was half his size, but anyone watching would have assumed that she was the one holding court, not Alistair. He deferred to her with his body language, let her walk slightly ahead… And yet Tavia didn't seem to take any pleasure in this. She looked strained and harassed and eager to see him gone.

"There's still the matter of Rylock. You may have met her in passing, a Templar. My captain informs me she was last seen traveling to Amaranthine to make an arrest. She never returned."

Anders froze. Oh dear.

"Of course she didn't return. I killed her."

It was a good thing there was a thick pane of glass separating Anders from the courtyard, because there was no stopping his incredulous guffaw. He felt a swell of pride in his chest, and stifled the urge to wave a little celebratory pennant out the window.

"Maker's breath, have you lost your mind, Tavi?" the King stopped abruptly. The Commander shot him a glance that said: Call me Tavi again and I'll be forced to gut you. It was a miracle the windows facing the courtyard didn't fog over with ice. Only former lovers had the power to fill a room with that kind of frosty tension. Pounce squirmed in the King's grasp.

_Stay put, kitty, there's a barrel of fish in it for you._

"You really are running with criminals now, aren't you?" he continued.

"If you'll remember, we _also_ ran with criminals. Or was Zevran just misunderstood?"

It was harder to hear the Commander, since Pounce was much closer to the King, but if Anders listened closely he could make out her every word. He wondered if this Zevran was the Antivan wild man she was so fond of talking about.

"My point is," Alistair said. _Bloody finally._ "You don't belong here with all these... It doesn't matter. Denerim needs you. I need you. I'm drowning. Right now the city needs a reminder of why it must be unified. We must stand together. The politics are… you know… _getting in the way_, mucking everything up. But your victory over the Brood Mother was decisive. Varel can't shut up about it. You're a hero, Tavia, again, and that's what Denerim needs right now."

The Commander slowly ground to a halt and turned on her heel. Maker be blessed, front row seats for the greatest ass-kicking in history… _Run for your life, Alistair, start now._

"There's something you should know, Alistair, not as a King necessarily, but as a fellow Grey Warden." She didn't wait for him to respond. "I made a pact with a Darkspawn. He could talk, he was intelligent, incredibly intelligent. He found the source of the Archdemon's power over the Darkspawn and he offered an alliance. I took it."

"You… _what_?"

"They're gone, Alistair. They've retreated, even in the Deep Roads. He kept his end of the bargain. There may never be a Blight again. There may not be a need for Grey Wardens anymore," she said. There was no hiding the sadness in her voice, the pang of regret.

"There will always be a need for Wardens," Alistair replied stiffly. "Always."

They strolled in silence, the King clearly trying to digest the information he had just been given. Anders had been present at the moment of the pact. At the time, he hadn't agreed with the Commander's decision. But she was right. The Darkspawn did retreat. Her faith had paid off. The Commander stopped again, turning to Alistair with a blank expression.

"So what'll it be, your Majesty? A ball? A festival? A parade?"

"Do you mean it? You'll help me? Even after…"

"No, Alistair, I will not help _you_. I will help _Denerim_. And if I do this, I'm not only collecting on the boon you still owe me, but asking another." She crossed her arms over her chest in a way that screamed for him to defy her. But he didn't, he looked at his feet and heaved a gigantic sigh. Anders almost felt sorry for the guy. He was no longer the big, intimidating Templar bully, just a lost little boy swimming in waters way over his head.

"Two boons. Got it. We can leave as soon as you're well enough."

* * *

"I'm coming with you."

"No, no you are not. It's out of the question."

Immediately after her walk with the King, the Commander expressed her intentions to visit Denerim. Varel jumped into action. She would travel with the King's caravan, under his protection. The length of her stay was unknown, but Anders had a feeling she would make it as brief as possible. As if the King's arrival wasn't enough, the keep was in another uproar to get the Commander packed and ready for the events she would be attending in Denerim. Trunks cluttered her room, serving girls grabbing and folding every possible article of clothing the Commander might need.

Tavia stood in the center of this storm, still weak but growing stronger by the hour. Some color had returned to her cheeks, but this turn for the better didn't please her. She was focused, touchy, giving orders and complaining when they were not carried out fast enough. Nobody dared confront her in her chambers unless it was to ask for directions. But Anders dared, because he would rather lick Oghren's chest than let the Commander go alone into a feral mabari den… which was exactly what he imagined the King's court to be.

Tavia stopped her preparations long enough to tell Anders his request was flat-out denied. He tried to dodge the girls that whizzed in and out of her room, but only felt like he was clunky and awkward and getting in everyone's way.

"Have you forgotten, Anders? Denerim is swarming with Templars. I'll be busy every second of the day and I won't be able to keep an eye on you."

"You're not well. It would be madness to let you go on a long journey without a dedicated healer. Wynne is expected back at the College, Velanna won't go near the city. I'm the logical choice." _I've also taken a knife for you and would do far, far more. _"I don't trust those bunglers at the castle. They don't know your condition. I've been seeing to you this entire time. You _know_ this is the right decision."

"When did you become such a speech-maker?" she asked, throwing up her hands. "It's tempting to agree, Anders, if only to get you out of my hair."

"Agree, then, because I won't take no for an answer."

The Commander looked him over from head to toe. He tried to stay still under her gaze. He half-wondered if she would toss him out of the keep for being such a nuisance, but instead her shoulders sagged and she waved him away.

"Fine, fine. You win, Anders. But I warned you. Remember that – I warned you."

"Templars. Swarms of them. Busy lady. Check."

"I'll get you into the festivities if I can, but if not, you're on your own," she said, a note of concern creeping into her voice. "And allow me to state for the record that I think this is a monumentally bad idea."

"I'm a betting man, Commander. These odds suit me just fine."


	10. Ten

**Ten**

**Note**: Thank you for the kind reviews. Your comments keep me going so please don't be shy!

If Anders made a list of the ten things he never, ever expected to do, riding in the King's personal entourage would rate right at the top.

This was nothing like their dreary marches to Amaranthine or the Blackmarsh. Liveried servants rode up and down the column, asking if they could bring food or water or wine, inquiring after the Commander and just generally trying to make life more comfortable. It was also turning out to be, frankly, an enjoyable ride through the countryside. The weather held - the sun warm but not overbearing, the clouds providing adequate cover. Anders was getting the hang of horseback riding and, at the Commander's request, they were placed toward the back of the entourage, away from the King and his guards.

Toward the end of the second day he found the Commander was in relatively high spirits. She looked stunning and, well, _commanding_ in her burgundy velvet corset and matching riding breeches. An ivory brocade half-cloak pooled on the chestnut withers of her horse, a gold cord fastening it diagonally across her chest. Anders could make out the little bump where she was still bandaging her wound.

It was easy to daydream in the saddle. The rhythmic _clip-clop_ of the horses' hooves was nearly enough to make him ready for a nap. But something drew him from his wandering mind, a soft bundle landing in his lap, over the pommel of his saddle. Anders stared at the thing dumbly for a moment, letting the terror really sink in and grip his heart.

_ Maker protect me. She's so very scary._

"You didn't actually think you were off the hook, did you?"

Anders swallowed a fist-sized lump and forced his eyes to meet the Commander's. Somehow, she had reacquired the warding blanket. Thank the Maker he had asked Lila to launder it before the trip. Anders wasn't certain how to proceed. On the one hand he was undoubtedly in deep trouble, but on the other hand…

"Stole it back did you? Couldn't bear to be parted?"

"You are on the thinnest of ice, ser mage," she replied, but she was grinning.

"Would you believe me if I said it was an accident? I mean _actually_ an accident this time?"

"Maybe," she said with a shrug, "To be quite honest, I thought it was just you being cheeky again. I thought: well, he certainly is determined, I'll give him that."

"Death wish indeed," Anders muttered under his breath.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Look, I'm sorry it… malfunctioned." Anders tried to wet his lips but his mouth was completely dry. She wouldn't actually murder him, would she? He shuddered. And then a sickening thought occurred to him. He had dreamt of her, but what if she had… Oh goodness.

"Just out of curiosity," Anders said, lowering his voice. "Did you, um… Who was it?"

_ Please don't say Alistair, please don't say Alistair…_

"As if that's even remotely your business, Anders."

Anders laughed, throwing back his head. The sunlight tickled his nose. "Well, look, Commander, you _may_ have used the blanket out of a dedicated sense of curiosity. Or, you know, you're a filthy little strumpet. Either way, you _did_ use it."

"What makes you so sure?" she asked. Oh Maker, she was enjoying this. At least she hadn't reached for her weapons, not the physical ones anyway.

"You implied I was in trouble for something, I made the logical leap."

"I see. And if you tested the blanket - which you claim you did - without knowing its true design, then how exactly did you uncover its actual powers?"

Anders sighed and looked at his hands. "My face is red, isn't it?"

"Like a strawberry." She gave a low, teasing whistle and then leaned over and punched his shoulder. "Man up, Anders. _You_ created the blanket."

"I found the blanket in your things while you were… convalescing. I couldn't sleep and since I _thought_ it would ward off bad dreams, I went to sleep underneath it."

"Surprise!" she cooed, giggling.

Anders tossed her a sidelong glance, grateful and surprised to still be breathing. "So, there. I've confessed. Your turn."

"I don't think so, Anders," she said. "I'm the aggrieved party here, remember? Besides, that wasn't much of a confession."

"I dreamed of you. _Gah_. There. Satisfied? Are we done yet?" Anders winced and stared resolutely at the grass. She was laughing at him, but it wasn't cruel, just amused, probably at his rampant discomfort. She reached over and took the blanket back from his lap.

"You know I think it draws on real events," the Commander mused. Anders risked a glance at her, but she was gazing off somewhere ahead of them, in the distance. "I went back in time, just a little, to when you gave me the necklace in my chambers. And then we, well, you know how it works. Varel never knocked on the door. I'm sure you can guess the rest."

Anders battled the tempting little demon on his shoulder that urged him to sink into that memory.

"I could, but it would be ever so much more instructive if you told me."

"In your dreams, Anders." She laughed. "Literally. Do you want it back?"

"No, you keep it."

Anders hoped there would be more of these moments. They felt like progress. She was letting her guard down around him and it was refreshing to see her smiling and laughing. Then she coughed and Anders held his breath until she took her hand away. There was no sign of the black fluid. He breathed a little easier then and looked on at the column ahead. He couldn't help but wonder if Alistair's appearance had something to do with her good mood. She seemed to take an immense pleasure in irritating the King.

One of the King's advisors stole up beside them. It was the old man who had followed Alistair around in the keep. Anders knew instinctually that the man was a toady. He had the black, beady sort of eyes that just screamed 'horse's ass.'

"Hail," the man said, bowing his head. "Are we enjoying the ride?"

"_We_ are," the Commander answered, glancing mischievously at Anders, "Very much."

"Excellent. The King has asked me to ensure our party is comfortable throughout the journey to the castle. May I propose a game to pass the time? Riddles perhaps?"

Anders rolled his eyes so hard he was afraid he might've caused himself permanent damage. "I've got a game," Ander said gleefully. "Let's all pretend you're not a gigantic turd and see how long I can keep a straight face!"

"Anders," the Commander said mildly. "Manners."

"A mage with a foul disposition. How very _unexpected_," the man muttered. He maneuvered his horse away from them and cantered on ahead.

"Enjoy your final moments on earth, you pompous windbag!" Anders shouted after him.

"Do I need to put a leash on you?" the Commander asked. "We're guests. They'll know exactly where we sleep. And you can't just threaten the King's advisors, Anders. Only I can do that."

The Commander winked and Anders felt a bit better. He was beginning to understand her motivations for obliging the King. She could make appearances and give her support but she didn't have to follow their rules. Anders should have known better than to assume the Commander lacked motivations of her own.

Anders relaxed back in his saddle. They would reach Denerim within a day. He had never been a guest of the royal court but he was now very much looking forward to it.

_Let the games begin._

* * *

"_This_ is where we're staying?"

"Were you expecting the stables?"

Anders turned in a slow circle, gaping at their accommodations. "No, no, of course not, but this is… _Nice_."

"There are advantages to having powerful allies," the Commander said with a shrug. "But there are plenty of downsides, too."

Anders walked through the door on his right to his suite. They had been given connecting rooms to acknowledge the fact that, technically, Anders was there as her physician. Learning that from the King's right hand had planted all sorts of naughty role-playing ideas in Anders's fertile imagination.

_ Shall I give you a check-up, m'lady?_

Anders inspected the washroom, giddy at the prospect of having such an enormous bath all to himself. One could get up to all sorts of trouble in a tub that spacious. Well, if things went _really_ well maybe he wouldn't be using it alone… He felt his brain begin to buzz; Tavia would be sleeping just on the other side of a flimsy little door. Right then he was probably the envy of Nathaniel, Alistair and Maker only knew who else…

"We'll have to dine with the court tonight," Tavia called to him. "So wear your best."

"Yes, Commander."

She appeared in the doorway, a gown folded over her arms. "You can call me Tavia, you know, when we're like this."

"Like what?" Anders asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"_Alone_, Anders. Pull your head out of your ass, and out of the gutter while you're at it."

Anders walked back into his bedroom and began to unpack. He had about half as many clothes as the Commander – Tavia – who had brought enough gowns to clothe an entire chantry. Anders's best robe was still with Lila. She was valiantly attempting to patch it after Tavia ripped it in two. Subsequently, he had very few choices when it came to court dress.

As if reading his mind, Tavia marched over and handed him a long paper package.

"What's this?" he asked. "Not more blankets, I hope."

She smiled and it touched her eyes. "No, not this time. Robes. I thought I owed you one after the knife incident."

Tavia had gone above and beyond. There was not just one robe but several, all in various colors and styles. She shrugged and seemed to hide her face behind the doorframe. "I didn't know what color you preferred."

"Thank you," he said quietly, running a hand over the detailed embroidery work on the sleeves, "Now I won't be such an embarrassment."

"Exactly," she teased, shutting the door with a muted click.


	11. Eleven

**Eleven**

"_You're_ not her physician. I refuse to believe it."

"Believe it, sister. I'm a healer." Anders winked at the pretty redhead. "And I'm very thorough."

He was rewarded with a giggle that could've brightened up a stormy day. Anders had no idea the Commander possessed such enchanting friends. But he had been ambushed in the corridor outside their chambers by a short-haired beauty with emerald eyes and a little rosebud mouth. The Commander had gone down to dinner before him and Anders was only now ready to join her. But then a lovely slip of a woman bounded down the hallway. At first she was crestfallen to find the Commander was gone, but her disappointment soon vanished when she discovered Anders instead.

"I've been going to the wrong doctors then," she said. Her accent was beautiful, lilting, definitely Orlesian. "I'm Leiliana," she said, extending an ivory hand. "Tavia and I served during the Blight."

"_You're_ a soldier? Now who's fibbing?"

"A bard actually," the woman corrected him, "and a crack shot with a bow." She took him by the arm and then made him turn in a circle. "I'm so glad they fit. Tavi sent word ahead, but her measurements were so vague…"

"I have you to thank for these?" Anders asked.

"The Warden Commander knows when to defer to superior taste," the girl replied, not even trying to be modest. Her pride was well-earned. Anders had never worn robes so comfortable or so stylish. These made his favorite scarlet robe look like a dish rag.

"I also chose her gown for this evening. I do hope you like it."

"And why would you hope that?" he asked. She had slipped her arm through his and together they slowly walked down the corridor toward the grand staircase.

"Oh… I suppose I… I shouldn't have assumed." Leiliana blushed, her fair skin turning a ravishing shade of pink. "Ignore me."

Anders let one wily eyebrow slide upward. "Ignore you, pretty lady? I wouldn't dream of it."

"Tavi said physician in her message, and so I was expecting… I don't know, someone older, uglier," the girl said, shrugging. "But you're so young and so… so…"

"Roguish? Handsome? Unbearably desirable?"

"So… not ugly," Leiliana finished at last, beaming. Then she stopped walking, tugging on his arms until he was standing in front of her. Her keen emerald eyes swept up and down his body and then settled on his face. "Oh my word. You mean to tell me you're _not_ courting her?"

"Courting is such a… strong word," Anders replied. And it was. It conjured up all kinds of queasy ideas – marriage, children, _monogamy_. But then again, he hadn't actually dreamed of or closely looked at another woman in months. Very problematic.

Anders scratched the back of his neck, fussing with his ponytail to hide his nerves. The Orlesian woman wasn't fooled. She poked him hard in the chest.

"Have you tried poetry? She adores poetry, you know."

"Poetry? _Her_? Seriously?" Anders flushed. He had never been good with words, especially ones that rhymed, unless it was coming up with a dirty limerick, and that didn't seem particularly appropriate for the occasion.

"Alistair never had the head for poems," she continued, taking him by the arm again. "But you're witty. I can tell. Bards can sense these things."

The way she bantered so casually about the Commander and Alistair was incredibly unsettling. He was trying hard to completely forget about the fact that Tavia had slept with a King. The thought of it dropped a stone in his stomach. How could he compete with royal blood? But then again, Alistair had broken her heart _and_ had the intellect of a gnat.

"And how much would one pay to secure your services, lady bard?" he asked.

"You want me to write a poem for you?" she asked, covering a giggle with her hand. "I suppose Tavia is rather beautiful, but I'm not sure it would have quite the right… tone."

"I only desire assistance," Anders replied, "a consultation, if you will."

"Ah! A consultation… I see. That's an interesting proposition," Leiliana said, tapping her chin as she considered it. "I am only in Denerim very briefly, but I could lend you my expertise for the duration of my stay."

Anders stared at her. She was so adorably frank and… Maker, an absolutely, astoundingly perfect match for Nathaniel. They could profess saccharine, earnest nonsense to each other until the sky fell down.

"There's a young man you should meet," Anders said. They had reached the stairs and he was practically glowing with the chance to see Nathaniel given a love connection. The poor boy was depressed, the living embodiment of ennui. A pretty Orlesian girl might be just the thing to stoke his dwindling fire. "He's handy with a bow, too. I think you would have much in common."

"Really? Oh, tell me! Tell me everything!"

Anders smiled. It was going to be a perfectly pleasant evening.

* * *

Anders was doing everything he could not to stare. He ought to blame the Orlesian girl; it was her doing after all.

The dining hall was crammed, noisy with conversations and tittering and musicians. Fragrant beeswax candles burned in the wall sconces and a heavy, wrought iron chandelier hung over the middle of the hall. King Alistair Theirin sat at the very head of the table, his bald-headed advisors spilled out in front of him like a bag of marbles. Leiliana, the Commander and Anders had been honored with seats nearish to the King. Anders could have done without that, considering he could feel Alistair's searing eyes on the side of his face. Alistair might not have been favoring him with so many death glares if Leiliana had chosen a more… modest gown for the Commander.

But of course life was full of delightful challenges. The newest being Anders battle to eat his soup without falling headlong into Tavia's cleavage. At least he wasn't alone. Everyone else at the table had wandering eyes, too. Alistair seemed to be splitting his time evenly between giving Tavia hot, longing looks and skewering Anders with his dagger eyes.

"What's this I hear about you playing matchmaker for Leiliana?"

Anders grunted something into his soup, trying to recall himself from a daydream in which he was dropping sugared rose petals down the Commander's dove-gray dress. What a shame. He was just about to start retrieving them with his teeth, too…

"Think about it," Anders said, smirking, "Nathaniel, Leiliana… Nathaniel, Leiliana… Leiliana, Nathaniel."

Tavia considered him over her turkey leg, her eyes growing dull and faraway as she examined this coupling. Then she smiled and snorted. "It's almost too good."

"I know!" Anders cried, laughing. He banged his fork on the table.

That was the wrong thing to do. The King looked only more thunderous, if that was possible, at the sight of Anders and Tavia having a merry old laugh. _Relax, idiot, we're not even talking about you._

It's not like they had much of a choice. Trying to have a conversation with the nobles in attendance was like trying to squeeze water from a stone. They knew about exactly two things: fashion and gossip. Anders liked clothes alright, but what could you really say about them? Wow, these robes sure are soft… And made of fabric! And thread! It was either chat with Tavia and Leiliana or risk utter insanity. It was an unexplainable mystery to Anders how these people were actually in positions of power; meanwhile, an unexplainable mystery to them was how windmills worked.

Somebody cleared their throat rudely. Anders glanced around. He noticed then that almost none of the women were eating meat. Every single one had piles of greens on their plates with a few marzipan fruits sprinkled around the sides. Leiliana, seated on his right, leaned over when she noted his befuddled expression.

"It's all the rage," she murmured, "for women to chew grass all day, like cows."

"Meat is unclean." They had been overheard. A woman with a pinched, ratty face was eyeing them from down the table. She had a forkful of said greens halfway to her mouth. "Vegetables are cleansing, purifying. Meat invites… sexual precocities in young ladies."

_ Yeah, that certainly sounded scientific._

Anders slowly flicked his eyes to the Commander. There she was, gleefully sucking down a turkey leg like it was going out of style when... well, it _was_. He hid his smile behind a boisterous cough. Tavia, having heard all of this, dropped her bone onto the plate. She had picked it completely clean, like a sexy, sexy little vulture…

"_Sexual precocities_?" she repeated, completely unconcerned. "Such as?"

Anders couldn't help himself. He wolf-whistled, inspiring a lovely string of giggles from Leiliana and a series of embarrassed titters from some of the younger ladies of court. The table had fallen completely silent in lieu of listening in on this conversation. He remembered the Commander mentioning something about putting him on a leash, but she wasn't giving him the death eye. No, the nobles had more than earned that privilege.

"Such as promiscuity," the rat-faced woman continued, "I think I hardly need explain the concept to _you_, Commander Tabris."

There was an edge to her voice there that was hinting at something mean. Very mean. Suddenly, Alistair wasn't so keen on glaring at Anders. He had gone white as a ghost. Tavia, bless her heart, reached for another gigantic turkey leg, shiny with gravy. Anders would not have been the least bit surprised if Tavia leaned over and beat the woman about the shoulders with the drumstick.

"Interesting," Tavia said casually, taking a feral bite of her turkey leg. "Perhaps I'll eat a few more of these and report back."

_ Commander, 1 – Rat-face, nil._

The rat-woman scoffed and turned a look on her daughter that said: erase everything she just said from your fragile little mind. Anders wanted to applaud the Commander's brass balls, but there were delicious things to eat and a bard to entertain, and a fantastic view of the Commander's rack to enjoy with his dinner.

* * *

What on earth even rhymed with warrior? Gorier? Conqueror? Forger…er?

It was hopeless.

Leiliana had left him with strict instructions after dinner. _Write, write, write!_ Her urgency was alarming. She must have suspected, as Anders did, that the King was up to something. Anders had narrowed down the list of "somethings" to: murder, blackmail or, worst of all, rekindling a romance.

The King certainly had looked put-out when Anders joined the entourage. He didn't pick a fight, probably because the Commander was already doing him a favor by saving his ass, but he gave Anders a decidedly frosty welcome. It was instinct. Men could pick out their rivals like women picked out shoes. If Alistair saw Anders as a threat then maybe he was closer to winning the Commander's heart than he thought. That, or Alistair went along with it to get Anders under his roof.

Each possibility was more frightening than the last.

Leiliana certainly wasn't wasting time encouraging Anders in his poetic endeavors. She had left him with a stack of books for inspiration. Most of them were too gooey to stomach. Luckily, the Commander was invited to join the King and his advisors for brandy in the strategy room. Ugh, Anders hated just thinking that sentence – _brandy in the strategy room_. This was like another planet. He missed quiet nights in the keep's courtyard and he missed Pounce, who would be staying at Vigils Keep until his return. There were untold dangers in the castle and on the road, and little Pounce had earned a vacation.

With the Commander occupied, Anders had more than enough time to hone his rhyming skills. He didn't know where to start. What he loved about her wasn't really the right focus for a poem. Poems were about romance, death, glorious deeds… They had seen plenty of the latter, but Anders had a feeling Tavia would be an extraordinary person whether she was running a vegetable cart or leading an army into battle.

No, what he loved about her was much simpler and much less… Poemy. He loved that she had an unexpectedly beautiful singing voice. Get too much red wine in the Commander and she would sing old lullabies from the Alienage that could break even the stoniest heart. And he loved that she didn't snore, that she put him with him. And he loved that she had no qualms about launching herself onto an ogre and smashing its face in with her bare knuckles.

Ah, love.

There was commotion at the door, a pounding fist.

"Go away!" Anders shouted. "Come back later, I'm very busy self-flagellating."

The knocking continued. Anders sighed and tossed his aborted poems on the bed. He had gotten as far as two separate beginnings, the first being, "I was smitten, and potentially smote!" and the second, "Leap of faith – drop higher than expected."

Not an encouraging start.

Anders stalked to the door, wondering if his hair was as frazzled as it felt. He was certain it wasn't the Commander. She never knocked like that. It was always _knock-knock-knock_ - "Anders?"

Perhaps it was a messenger or maybe Leiliana had a big, fat pirate fist.

"What is it? …_Oh_."

The last thing he remembered was the reflection of candlelight off of steel. Then there was a flash of magenta as he fell and the horrible, aching feeling of his powers being sucked out of his chest. The ground rose up swiftly to meet him. He murmured something like "not yet" and then felt the darkness swell beneath him. He was drowning, powerless, a heap of robes.

Then there was a voice, high and cold and pinched. "You can run, apostate. But you can't hide."


	12. Twelve

**Twelve**

_Good evening, Anders. My name is Splitting Headache and tonight I have the pleasure of being your host._

Anders sat up, dry-heaving, and scrambled to rest against the nearest wall, which happened to be a slimy, cold thing apparently made of razor-sharp rocks. Templars always were big on hospitality. This was a familiar feeling, the empty, dizzying effect of being drained of his magic abilities. He could sense two Templars waiting just outside his cell, their concentration giving him a constant, throbbing headache.

_You're a cockface, Alistair Theirin, and I will set your head on fire if it's the last thing I do._

Anders wouldn't want to be in the King's shiny boots when the Commander found out about this. _If_ the Commander found out. In the chilling damp, Anders began to shiver. She would find out. She must. They could only ply her with brandy and boring conversation for so long before she found a way to leave. And then… Then what? They could have emptied his room, planted a false note, or just informed her that he had run away unexpectedly.

It really wouldn't break with his pattern, would it? He was always running from something – commitment, mages, Templars… It wouldn't be much of a stretch for him to simply… leave.

But Tavia knew him better than that. Of course she did. She would find him and her wrath would be unforgettable. If she was still alive. Maybe that was why they had separated her from Anders. Together, they were formidable, warrior and mage, killer and healer – but apart, they were far less likely to put up a fight. A few skilled Templars later and…

Anders banged his head back against the wall. This was not good. Not good at all. Anders had escaped and been apprehended seven times. He knew what it felt like to be taken into custody. This didn't feel like those other times. There was a watchfulness, a cruelty, an efficiency that chilled him to the bone.

It was either the fear that made him shake or the fact that they had stripped him naked. Humiliating, to be tossed into a dank cell with nothing but your waning dignity to keep you warm. Anders clasped his hands together and pulled his knees up tight to his chest. There was nothing to do but wait. Without his powers he was helpless, he would have to anticipate the moment when they slipped up. They always did. At least Tavia would have time to discover his disappearance and track him down. There was always a cursory trial before these executions, just to make sure the paperwork was in order and they were "justified."

It wasn't long before Anders had a visitor. He didn't recognize the Templar that stooped into his cell, but that didn't matter. One Templar was exactly like any other. Bullies, all of them, coldblooded killers with absolutely unshakeable disdain for mages. The hatred was branded into their brains right alongside the notion of righteousness. Righteousness. Right. Anders was pretty sure he had more righteousness in his little finger. The gray-headed Templar that stared at him now was built like a bull, all shoulders and bulk. Even in the darkness, Anders could make out the magenta kilt and silver breastplate of the Templars. His stomach did a back-flip.

"Stand up."

Anders did so, deciding that compliance was likely to merit him at least a little compassion.

"I'm sure this is all some big misunderstanding…"

Anders gasped. The Templar had punched him in the stomach, hard, with his armored fist. He coughed and sputtered and wondered briefly if his lungs had flown out through his mouth. The Templar waited until Anders had recovered to smash him across the face with a crushing backhand. Anders fell back against the wall, begging for mercy with his eyes. He could feel the blood running down his nose and over his chin. One of his molars had come loose.

"You have Templar blood on your hands, mage. That doesn't wash off."

The Templar smiled, showing him a ragged row of yellow teeth. Then he hit him again, this time in the chest. Anders tried to keep his balance but he was soon knocked to the ground. The Templar kicked him in the ribs over and over again until Anders began to lose consciousness. The cell became water, swimming in front of his eyes, mingling with the pain until he felt like one gigantic bruise. At least one rib was cracked, he could feel the tell-tale throbbing tenderness in his middle.

The Templar grabbed him by the hair and yanked him to the feet. Anders heard the tearing sound and hoped he would at least have a few strands left…

A vision blurred in front of his eyes. It was the one time he had been really, truly frightened of Tavia. They were in the Blackmarsh, cornered in a charred, burned out hovel. Tavia miscalculated and a werewolf slipped by. He came for Anders, swiping a clawed hand across Anders's shoulder. Tavia was furious with herself. She flew into a rage. Her helmet landed on the ground and she tackled the werewolf, sitting on its chest and beating it until its head was an indistinguishable stump of fur and blood. All that because he got a bad scratch… Maybe she really did care for him… Maybe she…

"Wake up."

He had drifted. The Templar wasn't going to let him. _Crack_. Anders reeled back, taking the head butt from the bull-Templar right in the forehead.

_Tavia, I'm here. Please. Mercy._

The world went black and blue to the sound of his blood splashing on the stones.

* * *

They were moving him. Somebody had dressed him in a simple white robe. It caught on his wounds. He knew that sort of robe. It was the crappy, itchy shift they gave the condemned. Maybe they were taking him to trial. If a judge saw the state of his face he might get mercy, or at least the Templar would be censured for unnecessary force.

_ Fat chance._

He heard water trickling, like a river. He hadn't noticed the river going near Fort Drakon. They must have taken him in the night and removed him from the castle. That certainly didn't help his chances of being discovered. Maybe this was a secret Templar gulag, reserved for only their most hated apostates. Anders trembled, weak and starving and tired of retching nothing but bile. The Templars manhandled him to a small dinghy in the moat. He noticed there were at least four surrounding him at all times.

Anders had taken down one at a time or two, but four was a challenge, especially when he was hurting all over.

The memory of Tavia beating the living hell out of a werewolf visited him again. He imagined her ripping the helmets off these fiends and bashing their smiles in with her sword. _Maker, let it be so._ He would be a good boy from now on. No more dirty daydreams, no more wank blankets… Just please, don't let him die in a disgusting dungeon surrounded by Templars.

They paddled down the moat and the motion of the boat made him sick again. His stomach had long ago emptied out. He'd spent the night vomiting up his fancy dinner, his gut forced into a series of sharp spasms from the beating. They wouldn't let him rinse his mouth or clean the blood from his face. The sour, nauseating smell of vomit clung to his mouth and tongue.

_ Oh Commander, if only you could see me now. If you thought I was pretty before…_

The moat wound around two gates and then dumped them out into a vault. The ceiling arched, high and dotted with grates. Brackish water trickled down from the vents above, drumming on the stone floor of the cellar. A platform had been erected in the center of the vault but it was unfinished. Even now, workers were piling wooden boards and sorting nails. The Templars climbed out of the boat, hauling Anders with them, scraping his arm pits with their metal gauntlets.

They brought him to a small cell in the far corner and locked him inside. Two Templars stood guard. He recognized the voice of the bull-Templar as he conversed with a peer outside the cell. He waved his hand toward the wooden platform and nodded. Then he removed his helmet and marched back over to Anders.

"Well, mage, how do you like it?" He gestured to the platform again. The workers began hammering, fitting boards together to make a small box. "Sorry for the noise, but you probably wouldn't sleep much anyway. It should be done by the morrow. Remind me to take your measurements." The Templar fit his hands around his own neck. "Wouldn't want you slipping free again, would we?"

Anders stared. He wasn't going to give this pig the satisfaction of his misery.

"Oh Anders, I know what you're thinking. But she'll come for me! She'll save me!" He mimicked a high, feminine voice. "I assure you, she won't. There are just so many parties to attend, people to meet, hands to shake… You'll be long dead before she even knows you're gone."

"I'm going to enjoy watching you die," Anders whispered.

"Likewise, Anders. Likewise."

Anders spat. It was involuntary, an instinct. He regretted it at once. The bull-Templar was on him, reaching through the cell bars and slamming Anders forward. Then his fingers were wrapping around Anders ear. He screamed, shrieked, watching through watery eyes as the Templar brought his hand away, Anders's bloody earring in his grasp.

The Templar clicked his tongue. "Don't spit, mage. Only dogs spit."

He held up the little gold hoop to his own ear. It left a smear of blood behind. "What do you think? Hm? No, you're right. Not my style. Maybe my wife will want it."

_ You make me sick._

"Night, night," the Templar cooed, laughing as he walked away, disappearing down a winding corridor.

It was one insult after another. His ear burned. He could feel the scratchy shift growing sticky and wet where the blood dripped from the tear. That gold hoop had been a gift from Tavia. She found an ancient one in the keep and offered it to him. She never wore earrings, many elves didn't. And now that Templar's sow of a wife would get her hands on it. Beyond the beatings and the bruising and the empty stomach, that hurt worst of all. They took his powers, his magic, his pride and then they took Tavia's gift.

He wouldn't cry. That would mean he had given up. But he wasn't giving up and so he wouldn't cry. His eyes stung, but that was just from the pain.

Anders turned his attention to the platform, where the carpenters were hard at work. Wasn't there a bard's story like this? A power-mad king locking his lover away, letting her watch as the laborers built the machine of her doom? In that version there was no savior, no miraculous eleventh hour rescue. Nobody came for her. The carpenters build their frame and the hangman hung his noose and the innocent lover went to her death, swinging like a wind chime in a gale.


	13. Thirteen

**Thirteen**

They came for him at dawn.

As they led him to the gallows, one Templar on either side, dragging him like a sack of potatoes, Anders thought of what he had previously considered an insignificant moment in Amaranthine. He was so glad to be free, to be out in the open air and just _doing something_ that he couldn't help but let his companions know. Weird what a single tree could inspire in a man under the right circumstances. Tavia was amused, sympathetic even. He could hear himself prattling on, Oghren growing impatient and the Commander smirking all the while.

"All I want is a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning at fools."

The Commander had suggested that he set his sights a little higher, but he didn't want to. It was true. That was all he needed, really. After so much adventure, so much excitement, he realized that his high-flying conception of a "good life" was completely wrong. That pretty girl, that meal, that freedom to be himself… Those were the things he wanted more than anything.

And those desires were dissolving with every step.

It had not been a restful night. Mostly, it comprised of Anders praying, which he never did, and sending silent goodbyes to the few friends he had left. Ser Pounce-a-lot featured prominently in his prayers, and he hoped the kitten would be treated well. Of course he would be. That stupid cat was a magnet for affection. He was probably lying in some beautiful wenches lap right at that moment, his ears stroked by nubile young fingers, his tummy full of fishes.

When that became too dour for Anders's taste, he thought of food. Food always cheered him up. When the Commander informed him that after the Joining, his appetite would likely double, he was secretly excited. Eating was one of life's great pleasures. He never mentioned to her that, right alongside his appetite, his desire for _other_ pleasures increased too. But he wouldn't think about that. No, imaginary food would have to do instead... Thick, wheat pancakes with jellied strawberries and honey, crisp, smoky bacon and fresh-baked bread. Or wait, scratch that, Tavia's split pea trail soup with thick, sugary slices of ham and a steaming cup of mulled wine, shimmering with spices…

It began to make his stomach actually weep so he had to move on.

So he said goodbye to Oghren, because, well… Blast it all, he had a certain kind of admiration for the dwarf. Nobody belched like Oghren. Nobody farted like him either. And he had been the source of many an unexpected belly laugh. Anders appreciated their rivalry. Oghren was a well-matched foe and he would be missed.

It had become obvious that there would be no trial. In the eyes of the Templars, he had been found guilty long ago. There was no need for them to bicker about what was already clearly established. He was an apostate, a fugitive and a murderer. The punishment for any one of those crimes was death, the punishment for all three, apparently, was total humiliation and _then_ death.

_ Where are you? Where are you?_

There had been plenty of that during the night as well. Surely the King wasn't so good at detaining Tavia that she had completely forgotten about Anders's existence. But if Alistair was smart, which he wasn't, though perhaps his advisors were, then they would have provided some excuse for Anders's temporary displacement. Finding and reconnecting with an old friend, perhaps, or a sudden, inexplicable craving to go spelunking with dwarves. Whatever they had told her, it had to be pretty damn good. That or she was dead… or Alistair had won her back.

No, impossible. Tavia didn't love him, not anymore.

Anders had faith in her nose for a lie _and_ her skull-crushing abilities. She wouldn't stand idly by while one of her Wardens was being led to the noose. But they only had to distract her for a day at the most. That was plenty of time to capture, "convict" and hang him.

"Amazing really," Anders muttered as they approached the shallow wooden steps, "What you can accomplish when you cut through the bullshit and red tape."

No silly nonsense like "due process." Just good old fashioned hangings.

Bull-Templar appeared from the northern passage. He held his helmet underneath his arm. The executioner was already waiting on the scaffolding, testing the strength of the noose and then looping it through the frame. Anders stared at the little box beneath the rope. As soon as they kicked that out from under his feet…

_ Where are you?_

Anders was too weak to hoist himself up onto the box by himself. The two Templars accompanying him were more than willing to help with that, though. Early morning light streamed in through the grate above them, turning the grimy cellar into a bowl of yellow luminescence. Dust motes danced in front of his eyes, chasing each other playfully, unwitting observers of an unlawful execution. Well, unlawful in Anders's not-so-humble opinion. As they held him in place and the hangman fitted the rope around his neck, Anders finally began to panic.

He had managed to remain calm all this while, but the truth of his predicament was settling in. He was going to die. Seven escapes, seven chances for freedom, and now there was no outrunning his past. Jokingly, he had always expected to be lucky like his cats. Nine lives. Apparently he would only get seven.

It was difficult to hear the Templars chanting prayers through their helmets; his blood was pounding in his ears. Maybe he would pass out and make the whole debacle easier. Would he actually hear his own neck snap? Hm, that was something to think about. His toes squished together on the box as he searched the faces of the masked Templars in front of him. They had all come to watch the famous Anders die. He could feel their excited energy, their anticipation. They lined up in a semicircle behind the bull-Templar, their helmets grim copies of one another. The light was tricking his eyes, making shadows of nothing, creating shapes out of what he knew to be only thin air. So he would go insane then, too, before the end.

_I fell in love once_, he thought with a tiny smile, _that was enough_.

The rope tightened around his neck. He felt the hemp bite with unforgiving teeth into his flesh. It took all his strength to keep his knees from knocking together. If only he could summon one ounce of power, he might give these bastards a send-off they'd never forget. But they weren't taking any chances this time.

"Get on with it."

Bull-Templar was getting anxious. _Not so confident, are we? Afraid Anders the Amazing will conjure salvation from thin air?_

Anders grinned and then felt a hard jerk. His scalp tightened. He was choking_, _gagging_. Oh Maker_, _they never mentioned this bit_. The box was gone. His feet were free and he was falling, tumbling. He heard a sound like a humming bird, a fluttering hiss. He expected to stop falling at some point and actually get to the dying part, but he didn't. Odd. Anders hit the ground, knees throbbing from the impact. He looked up, shocked, to find the rope severed cleanly just above his head.

"I _told_ you I was a crack shot with a bow."

The booming words echoed throughout the chamber like the voice of the Maker himself. But it was no man speaking, and the bemused, feminine giggle that followed would have frightened Anders if he wasn't sure he knew the sound…

"Intruders! Draw weapons!"

Anders clawed at the noose around his neck and crawled on all fours down off the scaffolding. The Templars scattered, forgetting altogether that there was a mage to execute. They clumped up in the middle of the vault, turning panicked circles as they searched for the source of the perfectly-aimed arrow.

_Zip_.

A Templar crumbled, an arrow jutting out from the weak spot near his neck, the fatal gap. There were little more than a dozen soldiers in all, but Anders knew it would take more than one determined archer to get him to safety. Templars were not mindless Darkspawn. Templars were trained killers. For a flickering moment, he dared to hope, and was rewarded by a sound that sent a chill down his spine.

It came from the northern passage. A rhythmic, methodical sound – armor shifting, boots clapping on stone. Whoever it was, they weren't in a rush. Anders huffed, trying to calm his breathing and slow his heart. Dying of shock after only narrowly avoiding his execution wasn't the plan.

_ Shift-clank-step-step._

Then there was the cold, scraping sound of a sword point being dragged along the ground. Anders peered over the edge of the scaffolding, risking a glance at the Templars. They had all turned to face the northern passage. One of the shorter Templars trembled, his mace bouncing and shaking in his hand. The noise was getting louder, closer…

"Maker's breath," one of the Templar's muttered beneath his helmet, "It's _her_."

"Shut up, Williams. Hold your ground."

"We're all going to die," Williams whispered. They were the last words to leave his lips. An arrow pierced just beneath his helmet, skewering him through the neck. He sputtered and coughed, choking on the arrow and then his own blood. A silhouette appeared in the passageway, small and determined and covered in shining steel.

"Hello, boys."

That was all the warning they were given. As soon as she stepped into the full light, Anders could see the fresh sheen of blood droplets on her armor. Her swords dripped, red to the hilt. The Templars scattered again like a covey of startled birds. A soft padding sound drew Anders's attention, and he turned in place to see Leliana jogging toward him. She was just as stunning in her leathers as she was in a ball gown. She whipped a folded sheet from the pack on her back and shook it out. A robe.

"Here," she said tenderly, dropping down on one knee, "Get warm."

Anders whipped the soiled shift over his head and shrugged the robe over his shoulders. It was gloriously soft and thick and smelled like it had been drying in a field of wild flowers. Leliana drew her bow, aiming a shot from her kneeling position behind the scaffolding.

"Shouldn't you join the battle?" Anders asked, finding his voice. It came out in a croak.

"Are you kidding? Tavi would kill me. This is her stress management. You should've seen her in the foyer. No mercy."

Anders bit back a flood of relieved tears.

"Can you walk?" she asked, after sending off another shot into the crowd. "We may encounter resistance on the way back."

"I'll do more than walk," Anders said, hoisting himself onto his feet. He had unfinished business with bull-Templar and he was beginning to feel spectacularly strong. His powers returned like a sudden, gulping breath. The pain in his limbs dulled, and he felt a beautiful vigor spread throughout his body. Later, he would collapse and sleep like the dead. But for now, he would have his revenge.

Leliana did nothing to stop him. _Smart girl._

Anders circled the Templars. They had formed a kind of queue to try and take down Tavia. She dispatched them one by one, her shouts of rage soaring above the clang of steel. Bull-Templar was trying to flank her, sneaking along the cellar wall to get a shot at her back. Anders approached him quickly, before he had time to react or try and drain his energy. He knocked the Templar flat on his backside with a ripple of energy.

He held out his fingers, encouraging a ball of flame and ash to grow in his palm, sparks shooting in every direction. Anders stuck out his free hand, right in the Templar's face.

"Earring, please."

The Templar's hand shook as he dug inside his breastplate. Anders watched a single bead of sweat wind down his forehead. The Templar slapped the bloody hoop into Anders's hand and then fell back against the wall.

"H-have mercy, mage. I beg you."

Anders smiled. "No."

The image of that bastard's face burning all to pieces would bring Anders the warm fuzzies to his last day - which, happily enough, was not destined to be _that_ day. Anders turned and watched, transfixed, as Tavia cut down the last of the Templars. He watched her breastplate rise and fall rapidly as she caught her breath, her chest palpitating like a little sparrow's. She turned her head slowly toward him, and Anders had to feel sorry for the dead men at her feet. No way would he want that gruesome, blood-stained helmet grimacing at him as he took his final breath.

Then the helmet was off and Tavia was nudging the bodies aside, wading through the carnage toward him. Anders felt suddenly self-conscious. He couldn't imagine what his face looked like – bruised, cut, unshaven and covered in his own blood. Tavia dove into his arms, hugging him, squeezing as if she couldn't believe he was real. It reminded him of their brief embrace in the Silverite mines. This time, she held him a lot longer.

"Just in time," Anders murmured, sticking his nose into her hair. Maker, she smelled like strawberries… and, ew, blood.

"You know me," she whispered back, "Always had a flare for the dramatic."

"The Maker has plans for you, mage," Leliana said, joining them at the entrance to the passageway. "We've been looking all over the city for you. I can't believe we arrived when we did."

Tavia smoothed a stray piece of hair out of his face. "Are you strong enough to fight? They won't let you go without a struggle."

"Fit as a fiddle," Anders said with a smirk, "Can't you tell?"

"Yeah, I can tell." Her expression hardened. "This is my fault, Anders. If you're not feeling well…"

"I feel bloody fantastic, Commander," he said, stretching his arms over his head. He conjured a puff of flame in his right hand. Anders stared down the passageway. He could hear footsteps clattering, troops mustering…

"My powers are back, I'm mad as hell. Go ahead, Commander. Unleash me."

**Note**: I only just realized I've been spelling Leliana's name wrong this whole time. I always imagine an extra 'i' for some reason. Ridiculous. I'll go back and fix it in other chapters when I have time…


	14. Fourteen

**Fourteen**

Anders wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse that they arrived back at the castle just in time for brunch. The hall buzzed with activity, servants weaving through the nobility to replenish the tables with heaping plates of breads and fruit. The smell of fresh coffee made him swoon.

Their entrance made quite an impression - the blood-soaked warrior, the limping, battered mage and the beautiful bard. Nobody tried to stop them from entering the great hall. Perhaps the guards knew that getting in the Warden Commander's way was as good as begging for death. Tavia had been tightlipped on the journey back to the castle, quietly focused on some internal matter. Anders hoped she was deciding whether to behead Alistair or pull his organs out one by one with a chopstick.

Tavia snapped her fingers for a servant. A liveried boy appeared out of the alcoves lining the walls, scampering over like a little brown lapdog. "Have a bath drawn in my room," she said curtly, "Now."

The boy bowed and disappeared, running, not walking, out of the hall.

The gasping started around the first table. Then a wide gap formed, letting them through, a straight shot to the throne. More than a few noblewomen reached for their handkerchiefs. _Ladies, I know I'm a little ripe, but is it really all that bad?_

Alistair stood near the royal dais, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he chatted with Arl Eamon. He was quick to fall silent, turning on his heel when he glimpsed Tavia out of the corner of his eye. Anders had a feeling that she had kept her armor on for a bloody good reason. Emphasis on the bloody. She had either been crushing tomatoes for fun or hacking limbs… possibly also for fun.

"Commander," Alistair murmured, his face turning the same shade as his ivory brocade cloak. "What… Are you quite well?"

Anders couldn't quiet the jumpy feeling in his chest. Tavia was in a very particular mood, the one where she never raised her voice above a furious whisper. This was not a mood you wanted to come face to face with. It generally preceded bloodshed on a massive scale. Anders hoped for his sake that Tavia would keep her sword sheathed. He had just cheated death. It would be such a waste to have Alistair's guards fall on them now.

"I'm going to ask you a question, Alistair, and you're going to answer yes or no, and depending on your answer, you'll either have a slightly unpleasant day or a tremendously shitty one." Tavia adjusted her stance. Her armor creaked. Blood was beginning to run into the carpets. Anders prayed none of it was hers.

Alistair flapped his mouth. The hall was so silent, Anders could hear the King's heart rate accelerating. What a beautiful sound _that_ was.

"Alistair, what is the meaning of this - "

"Shut up, Eamon," Tavia barked. "Ready, Alistair?"

The King nodded his head, slowly, his eyes trained on Tavia's spattered face. She turned to Anders, her stern expression softening just a little. He wanted to kiss her. Even with the blood. It didn't matter. For just a moment, King Alistair looked at Anders, right in the face. He could tell the King was taking stock of Anders's wounds. The King didn't look guilty exactly, just, _strange_… ill maybe.

"Anders," Tavia murmured, "If you're feeling unwell you may retire."

"Ho, ho no, I wouldn't miss this for all the wine in Antiva."

"Very well," she said, spinning to face the King. "Did you have anything to do with his abduction?"

"Tavia, in the Maker's name…"

"Yes. Or. No, Alistair."

The King flushed to the tips of his ears. Apparently, he too was familiar with this mood of hers. Anders felt it was a safe bet that she had never actually turned it on Alistair, unless of course she employed it when he ripped her heart out and stomped all over it.

"I… No, no, Tavia. I had no idea…"

"Take a good look at him, Alistair," she said, gesturing toward Anders. "If you're lying, I'll make sure your pretty face ends up exactly like this."

"I'm not lying to you, Commander," Alistair said firmly. "And I'll see the men responsible brought to justice."

"No need," Tavia said with a shrug. "I took care of it. Look to your Templars, Alistair. They're out of control. _Somehow_, they stole a man out of your castle, imprisoned him in a ruin outside the city walls, and tried to hang him. Quietly. Without a trial."

"Maker's breath," Alistair whispered. He glanced at Anders. "Is this true, mage?"

"Nah, I just thought I'd bash my head against the wall for a few hours to see what happened."

"Did you get a clear look at your abductor?" Alistair asked.

"I did." Anders's chest ached. Speaking was making his lungs hurt. "Big, bull-headed fellow. Ugly. Mean. And married. Figure that one out if you can."

"Gray hair? Yellow teeth?"

Anders nodded.

"Jorgan. _Maker_, I hate that man. He's hardly a Templar. A zealot. He started some wild sect of his own years ago. I thought he was just a story conjured by the chantry teachers to frighten us." Alistair dropped his head into his hand and squeezed. He actually looked… contrite. Anders shared a look with Tavia, who also seemed surprised by the King's reaction.

"Oh he's very real," Anders said.

"Yes, I can see that. They don't exactly abide by the rules of the other Templars. They spend all their time hunting mages and dolling out justice however they see fit. No accountability to anyone. The chantry won't associate with them."

"Convenient," Anders muttered, "And cowardly."

"You have my apologies, mage. You should have been safe within my walls. I take this failure personally, and I will see to it that the guard is doubled outside your chambers," the King replied. He looked drained, terrified. Guilt or real grief, Anders couldn't decide.

"My physician is very tired, as you can imagine, your Majesty. I will seek an audience with you later to discuss the boons you promised me," Tavia said, bowing at the waist. Leliana curtseyed and Anders did his best to bow, but gave up trying and nodded instead.

"Tavi," Alistair said, grabbing her forearm. She wrenched it free.

"Don't, Alistair."

"You know I wouldn't do this. I would never…"

"That's right. And if you _were_ involved I would snatch the crown off your head and snap it over my knee. Then I would raze Denerim to the ground." Tavia left him standing, staring, gaping after her. Arl Eamon, scandalized, put a stabilizing arm around Alistair's shoulders.

Anders smiled, following his Commander to the eastern corridor. The hall erupted with noise as they left. He didn't care what they were saying. He wanted food, a bath and a big soft bed. If he never saw another Templar again it would be too soon.

Leliana took his arm and gently squeezed.

"I'm glad you're safe, ser mage."

"You and me both. So what were you two lovely ladies doing while I was preparing to meet the Maker?"

Tavia flinched, clearly sensitive about the fact that Anders had very nearly died. Leliana swept in gallantly to help her. "Your door was locked. A messenger informed the Commander that you had left to browse the shops in the market square."

"And you believed them?" He slumped hard against Leliana's shoulder for support.

"At first, yes," Tavia said quietly. She was up ahead, leading them back toward their chambers. "You left word - it was the responsible thing to do. But when you were not back the next morning I began to suspect the worst. Nobody had any idea where you were, which was only more suspicious. Alistair was frantic to keep me in the castle, attending his dreadful parties, which didn't help. It took us a full day to track you. The Templars took pains to keep you hidden. They moved you by night. Stumbling upon the ruins was a lucky coincidence."

"_Maker_," Anders whispered. The blood drained from his face. "So I really was… close."

"We found you," Tavia said. "That's all that matters."

Leliana stopped just outside their door. She gave Anders a gentle hug, minding his injuries. It hurt anyway.

"Be good, mage. I'll be back to check on you later." She nodded toward Tavia. "You're in good hands."

Tavia opened their door, clasping hands with Leliana in some silent, warrior's signal of understanding. The Commander held the door for him and locked it when they were both inside. Anders feared to speak. He acknowledged that opening his mouth even a little might invite all sorts of embarrassing confessions to come tumbling out. Seeing her again was… even Anders was speechless. It was something beyond relief.

She began removing her armor, unclasping the leather straps that held it in place. For once, Anders saw what a chore it was for her to wear such heavy steel. Her shoulders sagged as the pieces dropped away, falling to the floor around her feet. It didn't look like she had the energy to unarm herself carefully. Anders wanted to help, but his hands were already trembling with weakness.

When she was stripped down to her linen shirt and leggings, she turned and gave him a wan smile.

"Here we are," she said quietly. "It appears we're doomed to nurse each other back to health, Anders. First you, then me and now it's your turn again."

Tavia stepped over the pile of filthy armor and took him by the hand. Lovely, how perfectly her little hand fit into his. She brought him to the washroom. On the way, he glimpsed his door, which had been shattered into about a thousand splinters.

"Your handiwork, I take it?" he teased.

"You know me too well."

Anders remembered the fragments of poetry he had left on his bed. Tavia had probably found them. That didn't seem like much of a problem. The pain in his chest and face was more important than a few lame sentiments. A bath was waiting, steaming and sparkling in the mid-morning sun. Anders felt lightheaded at the sight of it. Silently, Tavia turned around and waited for him to undress. He did so, wincing as the fabric skimmed across his many wounds.

With shyly-averted eyes, she helped him into the tub. It was almost too funny, when he thought about it. He had bathed her, dried her, put her to bed and now she would do the same for him. Tavia was right; they were destined to care for one another. Not a bad cycle, in his opinion, if they could cut out the bleeding and dying part.

Anders melted into the water, sighing so loudly and contentedly that Tavia laughed.

"I'm glad you find my misery amusing."

"I'm sorry. I do that when I'm relieved," she said. "I'll give you some privacy."

She stood to go, but Anders caught her hand.

"Stay," he said hoarsely, "I'm not… ready to be alone."

"Of course."

Wordlessly, she knelt beside the tub, handing him a washcloth from the low stone table. Anders tried to lift the cloth, but his arm locked up and his fingers failed, the cloth dropping into the water. Tavia grabbed the floating cloth without comment. She made a little circular movement with her finger and Anders turned, giving her access to his shoulders and hair.

His chest tightened as her fingers combed through his hair. She washed his arms and shoulders, carefully, with the practiced skill of someone who was used to navigating around tender wounds. He dozed intermittently, so relaxed and relieved that he simply drifted away. When he woke again, his hair was wet and washed. The sour vomit smell was gone, and the bathwater was tinged brown.

"Anders?"

"Mm."

"I know we've already had a lot of… excitement today. But there's something I need to discuss with you. Something terribly serious."

Anders dropped his head back, looking at her upside down. Her nose looked silly from that angle. She continued raking her fingers through his hair. Anders felt a tingle in his midsection; he couldn't stop the comparisons to his little interaction with the warding blanket.

_ Like gold, strands of liquid gold…_

"What is it?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"'I was smitten, and potentially smote'? _Seriously_, Anders?"

"Ugh. You _witch_."

Her laughter tickled the side of his face. Anders tried to reach back and smack her in the arm, but his body wouldn't cooperate. He wondered how long it would take for the fatigue to wear off. Food would help…

"It was Leliana's idea," he said, "She said you like poetry."

"I do. _Good_ poetry."

He grumbled something under his breath. His brain wasn't working particularly well. No cunning quips came to mind.

"Anders… There really is something we need to discuss."

Tavia pushed him gently until he was facing her. His strength was returning, but looking at her in the sunlight was enough to make him weak again. He gestured for a towel. He was sick of sitting in the murky bathwater and it was beginning to grow cold. If they needed to have a serious talk, he didn't want to have it in the nude. Tavia nodded, took the towel and spread it wide for him. She looked away again, which Anders found endearing yet unnecessary, and wrapped the towel around his waist.

Anders followed her back into the bedroom and Tavia helped him into a simple cotton robe. She sat on the bed and Anders took the liberty of plopping down beside her. Tavia rested one leg on the mattress, the other on the floor, and stared resolutely at her hands.

Anders groaned internally. This didn't feel like the precursor to a happy, slappy conversation.

"You told me once that all you wanted in life was a pretty wife, a good meal and the right to practice your magic," she said, picking at her sock. "Do you still think that?"

"Sure," Anders said slowly, "Why?"

"I'm lost, Anders," she murmured. He heard the hitch in her voice. _Maker, don't cry now, my arms don't have the strength to hold you._ "I don't know what I want," she continued hoarsely, "I can no longer serve the King. I've lost faith in him. The Grey Wardens no longer serve a purpose. _I _no longer serve a purpose."

"Tavia," Anders said, "That's absurd. You're the Warden Commander."

"I know! I _know_. If I… If we…" She stopped, snorted, started again. "If there was a way to erase the Darkspawn taint in you, would you do it?"

Anders swallowed hard. He had never considered it. "But it's not possible."

"Thirty years, Anders," she said, "That's all we have. It's not enough. It's not… what I want. There's a way, Anders. I think I know a way."

"You do? That's… _Wow_. I… I suppose I don't know what to say."

Anders watched her picking the stitching out of her sock. On a whim, he reached over and took her hand. She squeezed it and seemed to relax a little. _Maker, was it that easy all along? I just had to take her hand?_

Suddenly, she looked up at him, her dark blue eyes wide and glistening with tears - a face that pretty should never look so sad. He tried to breathe, but his lungs refused to function. Anders didn't know what to say. He wasn't even sure he was still alive. Half of him was already fast asleep.

"Maker, Anders, you're exhausted." He couldn't argue with that. Tavia sprung up from the bed and strode to the door. She flung it open. "Boy! Somebody! You, yes, _you_. Bring me a plate of food. Make that two plates, no, three."

He wanted so badly to stay awake. There was much to consider. A way to kill the Darkspawn taint… If such a thing existed… It's not that he didn't enjoy being a Grey Warden, but the short lifespan was a bit of a letdown. Especially now that he so desperately wanted a future. Tavia crawled onto the bed. In the interim, Anders had fallen over into a sleeping position without meaning to.

"Should I get you, _the blanket_?" She raised one eyebrow and Anders had to laugh. His ribcage felt like it might burst any second.

"No, please no. Have mercy, woman. It might kill me, blood everywhere, shameful mess." Anders winced. "Sorry. That was… not sexy."

"Relax," she said, her round, elfin face brightening with a grin, "You don't have to be sexy all the time."

"Yes, I do actually. It's in my contract. One tall, blonde and unbelievably sexy mage, snark and fireballs included. Wank blankets sold separately."

"You're delirious, Anders."

"Is that _pork_ I smell?

It was. Tavia returned from the door with her arms overflowing with goodies. Anders roused himself long enough to stuff a wad of bread down his throat. The first taste brought him out of his stupor. He was ravenous. He ate blindly - turkey, pork, potatoes, fish… It didn't matter. He had always been a hearty eater, but the taint had given him an unstoppable appetite.

"Slow down," Tavia said gently. "There's no rush."

"Stomach…" Anders grunted between bites. "Disagrees…"

He fell over in a heap when he was sated, which involved the desecration of several animals and many dozens of obliging vegetables. On his back, he stared up at the ceiling, waiting for Tavia to finish her light meal. She cleared the plates and napkins and sat cross-legged near his head.

"You have bacon on your nose."

Mortified, Anders reached up to wipe it off, but his arm seized part way through the motion.

Tavia was leaning over him. His heart inched up his throat as she came closer. She kissed his nose, leaving a wet smudge behind. He exhaled slowly, a tremor running down the length of his body. Then she was stretching out beside him, her warm breath blossoming against his chin. She kissed him full on the mouth. Anders was infinitely grateful that his abductors hadn't managed to bruise his lips too much. He couldn't stop the groan that rumbled in the back of his throat. He had wanted it for so long, finally having it was better than all of his fantasies combined.

His tongue lapped at hers, greedy, wanting…

She pulled away, smiling down at him.

"Anders?"

"Mm?"

"There wasn't any bacon on your nose."

"Maker. The _audacity_." He puckered his lips and Tavia indulged him with another sweet kiss. He could get used to this – a beautiful woman serving him food in bed, kissing imaginary bacon off of his nose…

Tavia cupped his ear and frowned. "Will you pierce the other one?"

"I don't know," he murmured. "Maybe not. Seems a bit juvenile. I think I might be a grown-up now."

"Or a radish."

"Sorry?"

Tavia grabbed a vanity mirror from the bedside table. She handed it to Anders, who looked at his reflection with silent horror. He really _did_ look like a radish. His skin was red, swollen and bruised, with purplish cuts running along both cheekbones. His nose was swollen, a blister splitting open his bottom lip. The bottom of his right ear was a ragged mess. His stubble now officially qualified as a beard.

"You _kissed_ that?"

"I could have waited…"

"No! _No_." Anders handed her the mirror, sick of his distorted face. "I'll heal myself up after a nap. Not enough energy at the moment."

"That's fine. Let me take care of you until then."

"You don't need to ask permission for that."

Tavia draped one arm across his middle, moving it until she found a spot that didn't make him tighten up all over. Part of him was convinced he was dreaming. It was a likely explanation. Many of his daydreams ended up this way, with his fearless leader wrapped around him. Usually they were naked, but this was an inspired start… minus the cuts and bruises, of course.

"Anders," she whispered, her mouth close to his ear. He wished shuddering didn't make him ache so much. "I feel like I should explain myself. While you were gone, the King tried to convince me to stay in Denerim. I know what he wants. He thinks he can make me love him again. His gifts, the parties in my honor… It disgusted me. Just looking at him made me sick. And when I realized you were in trouble, I… Something snapped. I went crazy. I'm not proud of it. I shouldn't have killed all those men, but I kept seeing your face…"

Tavia paused, inhaling a shaky breath. Anders wasn't ready to interrupt her, mostly because he could sense she needed to say more. "I think I was waiting. I was waiting for Alistair. I guess I assumed since he was my first love that he would be my last. But I could've taken him back. He wants me back. But I don't want him. Not anymore. Not ever again."

His hand found hers. Their fingers laced together.

"I'm sorry I waited so long, Anders. There were moments when I almost… When I was dying and you put me in that bathtub, I wanted to kiss you. I tried to. I was just so tired. So incredibly tired."

Anders smiled up at the ceiling. No, he wasn't just smiling, he was beaming. He laughed, giggled, laughed again. "Tavia, why did you ask me that before? About the pretty wife and the meal and the magic?"

"It's just something I never considered for myself."

"You're a passionate, completely irrational woman. Why are you suddenly asking me about a quiet life in the country?" Anders turned his head to look at her. Was she actually _blushing_?

"Anders, I'm serious. If I can get rid of the taint… Would you want that?"

"Which?" he asked. "The pretty wife or the cure?"

"I don't know, Anders." She squeezed his hand. "Maybe you could have both."


	15. Fifteen

**Fifteen**

He needed to break this habit. Really, eavesdropping was so undignified, but he just couldn't resist.

After another brief but loving tête-à-tête with a turkey leg, Anders fell into a deep slumber. Hours later, the Commander left to meet with Alistair. He could feel her weight shift off of the mattress. He missed the steady warmth of her body, and then remembered that was pathetic and chastised himself for becoming such a hopeless softy. A few minutes later and he couldn't get back to sleep. He was recovering more quickly than he expected. The Darkspawn taint helped with that. _Say goodbye to those little perks_, he thought. _I might be taint-free soon…_

Tavia wouldn't tell him how she intended to reverse the Joining. Even after threatening to tickle her – which was an empty threat anyway considering he could hardly move, much less overcome her – and then trying to bribe her with affection, she still wouldn't budge. Anders had a pretty good idea that it was somehow related to these mysterious boons she had been promised.

_Please_ _let it involve blood magic. I personally volunteer to drain Alistair…_

Energized by his long nap, Anders healed himself and dressed, combing his hair into a loose ponytail. He'd have to save the shaving for later. Besides, he sort of liked the beard. It gave him a kind of gravitas. He could deal with it for a day if it meant getting down to the King's quarters in time to hear Tavia bitch him out again. It was becoming Anders's new favorite pastime, listening to the Commander ream the King.

Apparently the guards had been instructed to completely ignore Anders. He made it as far as the doors to the King's study before anyone actually told him he couldn't go in. So he waited outside, pretending to pace, while really he was using a wee bit of magic to listen in on the conversation in the study. It was a simple enough charm, not one the Circle taught, but there were a _lot_ of things the Circle didn't teach... Like how to pair jewelry with clothing, or hospital corners. They also did not encourage young mages to eavesdrop. But Anders was resourceful and literate, which meant learning new spells "not officially sanctioned" by the Circle was no trouble at all.

Anders had missed the first part of the conversation, but he arrived just in time for the good stuff.

"There's no way to reverse the Joining, Tavia."

"That's your opinion, Alistair, not mine."

"Duncan would be furious. He… This is unacceptable. Who will be Warden Commander?"

"I don't know, but it won't be me. I suggest Varel, but it's your decision."

A weighty pause. _Come on, Alistair, don't let her win that easily. How boring!_

"You're a disgrace, a disgrace to everything the Wardens stand for."

"What bothers you more, Alistair? The fact that I'll outlive you or that I'll be doing so with someone else?"

_Ouch_.

Oh hang on, Anders liked the sound of that. Someone else, eh? Someone handy with a staff, perhaps? He chuckled and then remembered he was supposed to be pacing. The guards watched him go back and forth across the hall like an enormous shuttlecock being batted from one wall to the other.

"I _know_ you had something to do with what happened to Anders, Alistair. Deny it all you like, but the circumstances are simply too convenient to be believed. I haven't castrated you for the insults you've heaped upon us simply because you're the King."

"This is unbearable, Tavia. Listen to yourself. You belong here. You belong with me."

"Ha. No thank you." She laughed. "I'm not going to sit in the shadows and run your country because you're too stupid to figure it out."

"You were destined to steer this country to greatness, Tavia. You know it's true."

"Perhaps, but those were not the terms of our arrangement, Alistair. I said I would visit Denerim and attend your parties. I never said I would let you murder my mage and try to keep me prisoner in a glass case. I'm going to ask for my boons now and then I'm going to leave. Tomorrow I'll be out of your castle. Upon leaving your grounds, I will resign as Warden Commander."

"Tavia - "

"Boon number one," she thundered, "Andraste's ashes. I want exactly enough for six people."

"What? _Six_? You're crazy. I'm not even sure we have that much at the chantry vault. That's asking too much, Tavia."

She went on quickly, ignoring him. "I don't care. Make it happen, Alistair. Boon number two: you will track down the mage's phylactery and give it to me, and if I suspect you skimmed so much as a drop from the vial, I will do everything in my power to see your reign fail."

There was a long, bitter silence. Anders's was sure the guards could hear his heart thundering in his chest. His phylactery. It would be his at last and he would be free. He wanted to fall down and weep like a baby, but then he imagined King Alistair finding him that way and reconsidered.

"And if I give you these things?"

"_When_ you give me these things, I will be gone. You will never see me again and I will never return… unless of course you give me a reason to. I suggest you don't."

"And where will you go?"

"That sort of defeats the purpose, doesn't it, Alistair? Grant me my boons by tomorrow morning."

_Oh shit_. He heard loud, angry footsteps and then the doors of the study flew open. Tavia stared at him.

"Um, hallo."

"Anders? What are you doing here? You're supposed to be resting." She took him by the arm and swept him away before Alistair could catch up. That was good. Anders assumed that the King's temper was probably rivaling Tavia's at that moment.

"Has anyone ever said that you look ravishing when you're in a rage?"

Tavia continued pulling him along at a clip, but she was smiling. She really did look lovely. She had dressed for court, but not in the fussy, ugly dresses the noblewomen favored. Instead, she wore a smooth, smoke-colored velvet corset and a long skirt. He didn't envy Alistair's position – having to watch her walk out the door away from him in such an enchanting ensemble. Anders envied his own position, actually. For once.

"Andraste's ashes," Anders said as they reached their quarters, "That's ingenious. Do you really think it will work? And why six people? You and I..." He began counting on his fingers.

"And Nathaniel, Velanna, Sigrun and Oghren, if they desire it," Tavia explained. She locked the door behind them. Apparently she didn't trust Alistair's guards to provide adequate protection. He couldn't blame her. He didn't trust Alistair as far as he could throw him, which was pretty far if he employed the right kind of magic.

"I'm responsible for your Joinings," she continued. "I won't free myself without offering the chance to the others. Justice is… Well, I don't think the ashes could help him."

"You're really doing this, aren't you? Leaving the Wardens for good?"

"Yes."

Anders opened his arms wide and she fit herself against his body. He kissed the top of her head. _Maker, how long have I wanted to do that?_ He squeezed her, running his hands up and down her back, wondering if he should state the obvious or wait for her to do it.

"Is that a caltrop in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" she murmured.

"I'm going to kiss you, even though you don't deserve it," Anders muttered. "_Caltrop_? I'm not even a rogue, you silly girl."

"Kiss me, then. I like you better when you're not talking."

Anders laughed into her lips, relieved that they weren't going to stop teasing each other even after their relationship was… Ooh, relationship. Was he in one now? Maker, that was a new feeling. There was only one way to celebrate. His hand snaked around to the front of her bodice and tangled in the laces. But he nearly stumbled backward onto the bed. All at once he was hit by another wave of crippling exhaustion. So much for being fully recovered. _Sodding Templars ruining everything…_

"Are you alright? You're weaving."

Anders flopped down flat on his back. He was so frustrated he could cry. He snatched up a pillow and twisted it in his fists. "Curses! Curses upon you, mortal body!" He turned onto his side, sighing. "I just want to _ravish_ you but I can hardly keep my bloody eyes open!"

"I'd really rather not here, actually, if you don't mind," Tavia said, sitting beside him and smoothing his hair. "I wouldn't put it past Alistair to listen at the door."

"That is incredibly disturbing."

"Yet not unforeseeable. We're leaving tomorrow. Can you wait that long?"

Anders blinked up at her, trying to stay awake and yet knowing it was hopeless. "Can you?"

"No, but I will."

"Sleep it is then," Anders said with a sigh. "The sooner we go to bed the sooner it will be morning, right?"

Maybe it was better this way. Wasn't the anticipation always better than the reward itself? The thrill of the chase? Etc, etc.? _No, you gigantic idiot, that's rubbish_. This reward spoke for itself. Anders slipped under the coverlet and was surprised to find a warm body crawling in beside him. This was going to be torture. He lay on his side and she curled up next to him, her back pressed against his front. Anders draped one arm over her middle, using all of his limited restraint to keep it from wandering.

"Do you really want to tempt me like this, little elf?" he purred. She squirmed against him.

"I thought you were _sooo_ exhausted."

"I am, but _Andraste's tears,_ you are making a good case for staying awake."

* * *

Anders dreamed of touching her, and then realized he was actually doing so. He jolted awake, swearing under his breath when he discovered his hand cupping the warm swell of her breast. Thank the Maker she was clothed. He adjusted his hand, placing it chastely on her waist.

He turned one eye skyward and found the curtains were glowing with light. Morning. He couldn't wait to get the hell out of Denerim. Did anything good _ever_ happen in this cesspit of a city? Anders lingered in the bed, hating the idea of abandoning such a pretty girl. Usually, he would wake up after a night with a woman and leap out of bed, dressing in the dark and disappearing before she had a chance to wrangle him into some detestable conversation about "What now?"

What do you bloody mean, _what now_? _I leaving now, that's what._

For once, he was glad to stick around for that discussion. Although he anticipated there wouldn't be much need to vocalize that sort of thing. He wouldn't leave her side. That was the plan. Easy enough to stick to, as long as there were no Templars knocking down his door. And soon enough even that problem would be behind him. Thanks to her.

Anders kissed her cheek, realizing at once that he was no longer fatigued at all, and that putting his lips on her was as good as buying a one way wagon ride to Dangerousville. If he started in on her he wouldn't be able to stop. Where was that stupid blanket when he needed it? She began to stir in his arms, turning to look up at him. He didn't know what to do with his face, having never been there for "the morning after," but he decided a languid sort of smile would work well.

"Good morning," she whispered, stretching against him.

_Don't do that. I'm not made of stone you know…_

"Good _morning_ my little puddle-wumpkins," he cooed, using the horrifying, high-pitched baby voice he reserved for Pounce. Anders squished his nose against Tavia's temple, only to be smacked on the chin.

"Ugh, _Maker_." She laughed. "And here I thought we'd make it at least a week before I was forced to murder you."

"You underestimate me, my dear."

Tavia's arms went about his neck and she kissed him.

"Even your morning breath tastes like roses," he whispered.

"You are such a jerk."

"Is that death I smell on your lips? Or is it decay? Hard to tell." He kissed her again. "Hm, definitely death. You didn't happen to swallow a corpse last night darling, did you?"

"I'm leaving the bed now."

Damnit, she was faster than he liked. Tavia dodged his hands, snaking out of the bed and prancing to the bathroom.

"I was kidding! If you come back I won't complain about the stench!"

"Call for a bath and maybe I'll forgive you."

Anders shimmied out of the covers, rearranging his robes to make himself decent. He looked forward to the next morning, when he would wake up naked and satisfied and covered in her sweat. Anders opened the door, staring blankly at the tall, gilded figure waiting just outside.

"Uh, good morning… your Majesty."

He bowed, remembering that they were trying to make a hasty exeunt. Starting trouble with Alistair was not the way to make a smooth get away. The King nodded, nervous. Anders glanced at the King's hands. His fingertips were bloody where he had chewed the nails away. The man knew how to dress, Anders could grant him that. Scarlet and bronze from head to toe, his hair neatly combed and perfumed.

"Mage," the King said stiffly. He was holding two distinct packages. "Is the Commander awake?"

"The _former_ Commander is in the bath," Anders said. _Because I gave her such a hard fucking she had to wash the sin off first thing in the morning… or I didn't, but I will, damnit_. Anders hoped if he thought it hard enough then maybe Alistair would see it in his eyes. "Could I bring her a message for you?"

"Here," the King said, shoving a pouch and a paper-wrapped package into Anders's hands. "Keep them safe. See that she gets them."

"Of course, your Majesty."

Alistair bit down on his lip. _Oh for Maker's sake, man. Don't get weepy on me._

"I'm sure she'll be very pleased," Anders added, trying to make nice. "Anything else?"

"I… No, that will be all."

Anders bowed again, keeping his head down until Alistair had time to disappear down the hall and out of sight. Poor man. He was losing the woman he wanted and the means to hunt down her lover. Not that Anders minded, but he could squeak out just the tiniest bit of sympathy. When Alistair was gone, he beckoned a serving boy over and gave him directions to draw a bath for the Comman – _Tavia_.

She was no longer the Commander of the Grey Wardens. That was a bit of a shame. Anders sort of enjoyed the idea of getting intimate with a Commander. It certainly sounded prestigious. Ah well, he had a big imagination. He was sure she wouldn't mind being called Commander from time to time, especially if he was between her legs while he said it.

"What's taking so long?"

Anders padded over to the washroom and poked his head inside. She was wearing a robe, sitting on the edge of the tub, waiting.

"Shinies," Anders said, handing the packages to her.

"This is yours," she said, letting him keep the paper-wrapped package. "And this goes in my pack for safekeeping." Tavia left the washroom long enough to hide the pouch of ashes. The liveried serving boy arrived, keeping his eyes dutifully averted as he navigated the adults and carried the pails of steaming water into the washroom.

The boy gave a deep bow and disappeared, leaving them in complete silence. Anders opened the shutters in the washroom, letting in the sunshine and birdsong. He inhaled deeply.

"Ahh, Denerim. I will not miss you, or your unique dog-piss odor."

Tavia shucked her robe and slid into the scalding water. Anders joined her, cursing the profusion of flower petals that obscured his view of her delightful little body. Her skin had turned tulip-pink from the hot water. Anders washed her, brooking no refusal, and took his time scrubbing her head and ears, making an exaggerated Mohawk out of her hair with suds. She sat between his legs, waiting patiently for him to either grow up or lose interest. It was painfully tempting to take her then and there, but he had promised to wait until they were out of the castle. And after catching Alistair skulking outside their door, he could see reason in her decision.

"I love your legs," she said suddenly.

"It's more convincing if you don't blush when you say it."

She ran her hand over his knee, which was poking up out of the water. His body was too long to fit comfortably stretched out in the tub. She tickled the underside of his knee and Anders squeezed the washcloth to keep from losing it. It began to smoke.

"Anders," she said with a giggle, "You're setting the cloth on fire."

"Bugger it."

He threw it aside, leaning back and squishing down into the tub. Tavia came with him, cradled in his arms and legs. Anders made damn sure to keep his arms wrapped around her middle, convinced that the tiniest brush of her breasts against his arms would result in a lot more than a singed washcloth.

His eyes wandered to the paper package on the low table beside the tub. His phylactery was inside. For a moment, it didn't seem real. Maybe Alistair had filled the tube with fruit juice and chucked Anders's blood into a fishbowl for safekeeping. Anders felt drawn to it, hypnotized. How would he dispose of it? What would be properly symbolic?

"Just open it, Anders."

"Sorry," he said, "It's just… I've wanted to get my hands on it for so long. Hard to focus on anything else."

"Even me?"

"Even you, elfling."

"Then let's have a look." Tavia leaned out of the tub and snatched up the vial. She shredded the paper with her soggy hands and pretended to let the vial drop. "Whoopsies."

"_Maker_, you're a mean one."

Tavia handed him the vial. It was smaller than he expected, far less menacing than the bubbling cauldron of devil blood he had always pictured. It might have been filled with anything. The blood had separated. Anders tipped it back and forth, watching through the clear glass as his life force swirled.

"Creepy, isn't it?" he asked.

"Extremely."

Anders held it a bit longer, marveling at the fact that it was warm in his hands.

"This isn't one of those, 'now that I have it I can't bear to part with it' kind of thing, is it?" she asked.

"Not at all," Anders replied. "But I didn't think you wanted me tipping it out in the tub."

"Right, I'll pass on that."

Anders grinned, kissing the side of her head. How strange, that he could do that now whenever he wanted. He could kiss her anywhere, on the neck, the lips, the thighs… It was like stumbling upon the greatest key in the world, the key that unlocked his happiness. What beautiful freedom, and how fitting that he should also be holding the one thing keeping him hostage.

He put his hand over the washroom floor, holding the vial tightly in his fist. As Tavia watched, he squeezed, his hand igniting in flames. Jaw set, he held the vial until it too burst into flames, smoking briefly before dissolving into a handful of ashes. Anders opened his hand and the remains tumbled out, gathering in a black, dusty pile on the stones.

"I just got chills," she whispered.

"Me too."

"So that's it?"

"That's it."

Anders shook his hand and then dusted it off. He hadn't expected to actually _feel_ different, but he did. His chest felt lighter. So many long years… He had never realized how physically taxing it was, to know that you could be found and killed at any moment. Now there was nothing holding him back from living the life he wanted and it was almost… scary.

"It's okay," Tavia said quietly, "You're still Anders."

He nodded. "Come on, my little prune. Time to get dressed. We've got a long journey ahead of us."

* * *

**Note**: There's still a bit more to the story, so please be patient. :)


	16. Sixteen

**Sixteen**

**Note**: Mature content in this one. Very mature. Sadly, this will be the end of their adventure, unless there are strong feelings. Maybe I could start a new story following their lives in Orlais...

* * *

"Did it… Did it work?"

"I don't know, Anders. Ask me again in thirty years."

"I don't feel any different, but maybe it's like herpes, you know - nothing, nothing, then BAM – hellfire and itching all over."

Tavia stared at him. "You're covered in Andraste's ashes and talking about herpes?"

"Right. Sorry."

"And hang on, how do you know about herpes?"

"Darling, _everybody_ knows about herpes." Her eyebrows flew up. "Only in the _hypothetical_, of course. Don't look at me like that. Just because I'm a cultured man of the world…"

"Read: Slut."

Anders wasn't going to win this one, that much was abundantly clear. He _had_ sort of screwed himself by bringing up the herpes thing. They were standing on the battlements of Vigils Keep. In an hour they would depart for Orlais with Leliana and her drooling, love-struck puppy, previously known as Nathaniel Howe. They'd waited for a still day, of course, to use the ashes, not risking them flying all over the place. The sky was suitably blue and placid. He had expected some kind of blazing white light to envelope them or angels to start singing. But the whole affair was tragically anticlimactic.

"You can inspect me all over, dearest. If that makes you feel better," he said.

Tavia smiled and looked like she was about to lean over and kiss him when she began to shake. She clutched her stomach, surprised, and fell to her knees before crying out and vomiting a gooey red and black mess onto the stones. Anders pointed, and laughed, and then felt his own stomach twist painfully.

"Oh bother."

He fell beside her, retching up the same rainbow-colored hodgepodge of bile.

"I guess that answers that," Tavia muttered, sitting up. Anders gaped at her.

"T-Tavia… Your eyes…"

"What?"

They were white, opaque. _Terrifying_. Then they were clearing, crystalline blue again. Anders sighed with relief, knowing perfectly well that his eyes were probably doing the same creepy thing. Tavia stood, helping Anders to his feet. Silently, they stared down at their twin piles of… _goop_. So that was that. In one way and back out the other. He did feel slightly different, but he knew the real changes would be apparent later. No more bad dreams, no more shoving food down his gullet like a starved barbarian…

"Wouldn't it be hilarious if a boulder fell out of the sky and smashed us to pieces? Like the cosmos just couldn't let us win or something?"

"Yes, Anders. That would be bloody hysterical."

He squeezed her hand. He had interrupted her thoughts. Anders raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. He had been waiting for this moment for days. The road back to Vigils Keep was not only stormy and dangerous, but totally unromantic. They spent the nights just trying to keep the tent staked to the ground or taking turns with the watch to avoid being ambushed by bandits. There was no time for love-making and besides, Anders decided it would be better to wait until they were cleansed of the taint. It seemed fitting that one chapter should close behind them before they made the next giant step…

"Could I ask you something?" he whispered, taking her by the waist. He turned her toward the flourishing grounds below, the Darkspawn bile forgotten. He wasn't interested in staring at his own vomit.

"No, you cannot give Oghren's ashes to Pounce."

"But the dwarf doesn't even _want_ them."

Tavia giggled, butting her head against his chest gently. Funny, Pounce-a-lot did the same thing, but usually only when he was hungry and wanted Anders to fetch him mackerel. Tavia probably didn't want mackerel. He chalked it up to her funny way of showing love. Anders kissed her hand again, brushing her knuckles over the short stubble of his cheek.

"Let's try this again: Can I ask you something?"

"Mmhm."

"I, um…" Oh Maker, how did he always get himself into these situations? He was too impetuous, too excitable, but he didn't care. He always did what felt right and so far it hadn't steered him wrong. _Do it or don't, she's staring at you, wanker_. Anders cupped her face in his hands. He kissed her nose, bringing her face to his lips like a cool drink of water.

"I thought maybe you'd… um, like to be my pretty, average wife, with a nice, normal house and a few perfectly mediocre children." That was a funny feeling. Was his stomach actually trying to tap dance? "When we get to Orlais… I mean."

"Anders, are you… _proposing_?"

"Something like that."

"But we haven't even had sex! What if I'm terrible in bed?"

"I _highly_ doubt that." He dropped his hands. Oh boy, he had warned himself this might happen. There was always that chance she could say no. What then? Did a man just sort of sidle shadily away with his tail between his legs? _Right, see you later then, if you need me I'll be out back sticking my head in a hole..._

"I… I think I'd like that. I've always wanted a totally middling husband. A so-so house wouldn't be so bad, either." She smiled. Teeth. Lots of teeth. That was a big, happy smile. Anders grabbed her shoulders and kissed her, hard, relieved and overcome and… surprisingly not afraid. Wasn't marriage supposed to be petrifying? Shouldn't he be experiencing a strong urge to run in the opposite direction? Maybe this was growing up, or maybe it was love, or a subtle combination of the two. At any rate, Anders didn't much care. He couldn't imagine working up the desire to ask anyone else to stay with him forever.

Tavia took his hand and led him to the door leading down into the castle proper. Anders could feel his face burning. She was blushing, too. He was six years old again, giving his first crush a half-dead dandelion he had kept hostage in his pocket for two days.

"Do you really want children?" she asked quietly.

"Dozens."

"We better get started then."

* * *

There was really no reason to be nervous. He was force to remind himself of this for the umpteenth time. _He_ was the experienced one in the relationship; she had only had sex with one stupid little block-headed virgin. Anders was fairly sure a Templar's knowledge of female anatomy couldn't cover the back of a matchbook. Alistair was a blunt instrument, so surely Anders, a honed stiletto, would serve her better. It _was_ his first time with an elf. Elf women were much smaller than human females… But it's not like she was some wilting, delicate flower. It's not like he would hurt her, right?

So then why was he sweating? And why had a pesky colony of butterflies suddenly taken up jittery residence in his stomach?

Ridiculous, empty platitudes like: _just do what feels right _and _follow your heart_, swam through his head. None of it made him feel better. Maker, even Nathaniel and Leliana were glowing like fireflies as they oozed around the grounds together, hand in hand. If _Nathaniel_ could do it, then there were no excuses left for Anders. They were only a day out from Vigils Keep, spending the night in a quaint inn west of a tiny coastal village. It sat on a windswept, rocky beach with a breathtaking view down to the sea. It would take weeks to reach Orlais, but Anders didn't plan on actually waiting until they arrived there to bed Tavia.

Scenic, quiet, private… _The perfect bloody place_.

Even Ser Pounce-a-lot, lolling in a crescent-shaped sunbeam, eyed him with contempt. _Coward_, the cat seemed to say, _chicken_.

"Right, because _you're_ such a lady's man," he muttered.

"Anders? Who are you talking to?"

_Deep breath_. He coughed. _Not that deep._

"Nobody!"

The door to their room clicked open. Tavia stepped inside, looking a little sun-burned and pink with exercise. A fresh, grassy gust from outside followed her in. Somebody had tucked a daisy behind Tavia's ear. He hoped it was Leliana, because he really wasn't in the mood to break Nathaniel's wrists. She closed the door, taking the daisy from behind her ear and spinning it between her fingers. She was still dressed in her riding clothes, a form-fitting gray tunic and leather breeches with patches on the knees.

_ Maker, what a perfect creature._

"I wish we could stay here," she said wistfully, going to the window. The waves crashed on the rocks below. "But Leliana promises me Orlais is like a dream."

"She says that about everything," Anders replied.

Tavia turned and looked at him, her hands still braced against the window. He followed the curve of her neck over her shoulders, down her back to the roundness of her backside. If those breeches were any tighter they'd be sewn into her skin.

_Now or never_. Helpfully, Pounce flopped off the window ledge and disappeared into the washroom, giving Anders a mocking tail-flick and one last glance as he disappeared around the doorframe, as if to say, _I'm skipping a nap in the sun for this, so don't screw it up, master._

_Aye, aye, kitty._

Anders glided over to the window, leaning over Tavia to kiss the end of her pointed ear. Her body was still delightfully warm from being kissed by the sun.

"Do you know what's strange?" he asked, sliding one hand around her waist. His fingers splayed over her flat stomach. She inhaled sharply, surprised. Pleasantly so, he hoped. "After the Joining I felt horny all the sodding time. I thought maybe that would go away after we used the ashes."

"But?"

"But I'm afraid it's only gotten worse." His hand drifted down into the warm juncture between her thighs. He cupped her there and squeezed. She shuddered against him, letting out a long, aching sigh. Anders licked the edge of her ear, enjoying the tiny moans that coincided with his tongue's progress.

"I'm going to undress you, slowly. And then we're going to make up for lost time."

His fingers expertly unlaced her breeches, his other hand making small circles on her lower back. Tavia was trying to press against him, but Anders wouldn't let her. It was too much fun to have her writhing like that, desperate for him. The flap of her breeches came free and Anders slid his hand inside, laughing huskily into her ear when he found she was wearing nothing underneath.

"How improper, Commander." His fingers teased her, stroking up and down until he felt her hips try to follow his motions. Anders slipped one finger inside of her. "Oh," he whispered, biting down on her ear, "And wet, too. I had no idea the scenery here was so… _exciting_."

"Anders. Please."

"Please, what? You'll have to be more specific."

Tavia turned to kiss him and then her head fell back against his shoulder as he pushed another finger inside of her.

"Bed," she whispered, "Now."

"As you wish, Commander."

Anders withdrew altogether, turning and walking backward toward the bed. He beckoned her with a crooked finger. Tavia followed, already working on the laces of her tunic. Anders chuckled at her enthusiasm.

"Anxious, are we?"

"Be silent, mage. Your tongue could be put to better use."

Anders smirked. So, she had desires of her own, did she? _Splendid_. He waited just in front of the bed, guarding it. Tavia frowned, scoffed, and then realized his intentions. She began to unlace his robe, and when it was loose, she yanked it down around his shoulder. Anders gave in, helping, and shimmied the robe over his hips. He stepped out of it, kicking it to the side.

Anders meant to throw her onto the bed, but stopped when he saw her wide-eyed expression.

"Andraste's blood, Anders. Your body."

She kissed his chest, her fingers sweeping over him, tangling in his springy chest hair. She went lower, her tongue outlining the finer details of his abdomen. Anders smiled, exalting in the way she worshipped him. He cradled her head gently in his hands. The tip of her tongue slid into his navel, lingered, and then went lower, traveling across the tops of his thighs. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled until she stood. Anders kissed her, squeezing the back of her neck.

He turned, pushing her roughly onto the bed. It didn't take much to pull her breeches free. Two hard tugs and they were off. Anders tossed them away. He didn't hesitate, grabbing her by the knees and pushing her legs open. He stood between her thighs and waited until her eyes were locked firmly on his. He held her by the waist, smiling as her eyes traveled up and down his body. Tavia might have glanced at him when he was in the tub, but by the way she looked at him now…

Anders lowered himself onto the bed, taking his time, letting her feel his weight. Tavia gasped beneath him and began yanking at the bottom hem of her own shirt. Anders helped, pulling it smoothly over her head and discarding it somewhere over his shoulder. The insubstantial band around her breasts wasn't a match for his hands. It tore cleanly in half, leaving her completely exposed to him.

Tavia was clawing at his shoulders, trying to pull him down onto her.

"Wait," he said quietly, brushing his thumb over her bee-stung lips, "Let me look at you."

Now that he had her prone and naked, he wasn't going to rush blindly forward. Months of agonizing over her, dreaming of her, healing her and protecting her in battle… It had all led to this moment. Anders took his time, taking in every detail of her. There was a little mole just an inch below her right breast. He kissed it. Tavia blushed charmingly, trembling slightly as she waited for him to be ready. Her body committed to memory, Anders sucked and nibbled her into a frenzy. When she was in danger of ripping the flesh clean off his back with her nails, he drove inside of her.

Her heat was intoxicating, her enthusiasm a deliciously welcome surprise. Anders had never cultivated an appreciation for her hips, but that was changing. What shocked him the most was how intensely he wanted to please her. In the past, he was always focused on his pleasure, his satisfaction. But now he was learning how gratifying it was to carefully guide a woman through the twisting canyon that led to climax. He paid close attention to her sighs and gasps. He slowed down when he felt her spinning out of control and held back, tickled by her plaintive demands for more. If he listened, she told him everything he needed to know. When he himself could no longer hang on, he increased his speed and, like magic, she began chanting his name in a throaty, worshipful litany that made his heart all but explode.

This was music. This was heaven.

Anders finished inside of her, half-delirious with pleasure. He scooped her into his arms and nestled her against his chest and waited for her to stop panting. Her forefinger drew spirals around his nipple as she calmed her breathing. Anders could no longer tell where he stopped and she began.

"Well," Anders growled, trailing his fingertips up and down her slick back, "That bears repeating."

She kissed a line across his collarbone.

"So I meet the mage's lofty standards?"

"And then some. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Tavia laughed. "You can heal me up later before round two…"

"And rounds three and four," he finished for her. She snuggled down into his chest. Apparently that suggestion pleased her. How many men were as lucky as he? Anders would never need to use that silly blanket again. Or, he thought, an intriguing idea bubbling to the surface, they could sleep beneath it together and report their findings in the morning. So many options, so many possibilities and all the time in the world to explore them. Explore _her_.

Anders groaned. He was already stirring for round two. She would feel it any second, though judging by her enthusiastic performance the first time, she probably wouldn't mind. Oh goodness, she was squirming against him. She had definitely noticed.

"I had no idea mages possessed such stamina," she purred, licking the sweat from his neck. Maker, she was ready, too. Just the thought of being inside her again made his blood ignite. Anders squeezed her backside, still trying to adjust to the knowledge that this was only the first languid afternoon of many. And if they kept up this pace… Maker, there probably _would_ be children.

"Do you think they'll be mages?"

He had spoken his thoughts aloud without meaning to. Tavia blinked up at him, his intent dawning on her a moment later.

"Battlemages, if the pattern holds."

Anders wrapped his arms around her and squeezed possessively. "I won't let them go to the tower, Tavia."

"And you think I would?"

She stroked his face, scooting up on his chest to bring her eyes level with his. He felt suddenly choked, fussing over children he didn't even have yet.

"Your phylactery is gone, Anders." Tavia nuzzled her nose against his cheek. "They won't find us, and even if they do, I won't let myself get sloppy. Leliana's an excellent sparring partner."

Anders nodded, slightly mollified by her words and by the compounded memories of her dispatching Darkspawn like it was no more difficult or dangerous than snapping her fingers. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and dropped his hand down to rest over her stomach.

"You're right. We can handle anything. But no swords when the, um, thing happens."

"It's called a baby, Anders, not a _thing_."

"D'you think they'll have little pointed ears?" He smiled dreamily. His handsome mug with pointy ears? Now that would be a force to be reckoned with.

"Half-elves," she replied, trying out the phrase with a similarly goofy smile. "And terrible troublemakers if they're anything like their parents."

"I'll teach them," Anders said resolutely, kissing her. "If they show any talent with magic, Tavia, I'll teach them to use it."

"And if they can't use magic?"

Anders chuckled and rolled her onto her back. He wanted to make love again before all the sentimentality gave him a sugar headache. "Then I'll love them just the same."

Tavia's body rose to meet his. Anders sighed into her kiss. Truly, this was the life – a pretty girl, a decent meal on the horizon, and something even better to look forward to…

The right to tutor his children in the subtle art of shooting lightning at fools.

*

**Fin**.


End file.
